


Solivagant

by TheIttyBitty



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Space, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bathing/Washing, Caring Dean Winchester, Castiel (Supernatural) in a Wheelchair, Dean Winchester Saves Castiel, Disabled Castiel (Supernatural), Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gangs, Grumpy Castiel (Supernatural), Healing, Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Platonic Cuddling, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Tattooed Castiel, Touch-Starved Castiel, slow healing, they both have strong personalities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-10-10 08:26:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17422370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIttyBitty/pseuds/TheIttyBitty
Summary: Dean Winchester is accustomed to the unexpected. Where he lives, the way he lives, he has to be.He is not, however, expecting to stumble across a body in an alley. He's not expecting the body to be alive, he's certainly not expecting himself to carry the guy home. He's not expecting to find a friend, he's not expecting to see his own past and mistakes reflected in this guy's eyes.He doesn't need this, he doesn't need the burden of taking care of another person. He doesn't need the pain of failing. And he doesn't need all the trouble that Castiel brings into his life.So why can't he bring himself to care?





	1. Susurrus

**Author's Note:**

> About the universe:  
> This story takes place in the far future, on another planet.  
> Dean lives in the Below, a slum that spans a good part of the planet he lives on. The wealthy part of the planet is called Olympus.

Susurrus  
_noun_  
whispering, murmuring, or rustling.

 

-

Dean is accustomed to the unexpected. When you live in the Below, you have to be. You never know what’s going to happen. He goes with the flow. He’s been in lockup a few times, didn’t care for it. He’s lived on the streets, he’s lived in a brothel for a few weeks, didn’t care for either of those options either. But that’s the thing about life, isn’t it? It throws you what it throws you and you choose how to respond. Dean tries to dodge the ball entirely if he can.

That said, he’s not expecting _this_.

He’s not expecting to come sneaking out of an alley up midtown only to practically trip on a body. Alright, so bodies on the street aren’t _that_ uncommon. Sometimes the Peace Officers will come pick them up, sometimes they’re left to rot. Just depends where you are. Usually in the Below they rot.

But this body is different. He’s not sure why at first, not sure why he doesn’t just step over it and be on his way, if he’s honest. It’s just that something stops him. It’s a boy, a young man, rather. He’s beat to shit, black and blue. Blood all over the fucking place. It’s a goddamn shame is what it is, but it’s no reason to stop. Dean needs to be on his way, it’s not as if he’s on this side of town doing anything legal.

Then, the body twitches. There’s a noise, a groan. Soft, so quiet that Dean could ignore it if he wanted, _should_ ignore it. He takes a step toward the man and then stops. This isn’t his problem. But… the eyes blink open. They find him. The young man doesn’t plead, even with his eyes. He just looks. Dean recognizes the expression, it’s resignation. This guy knows he’s going to die. He knows he’s going to bleed out here on the sidewalk with someone right in front of him and dozens of others within shouting distance.

Fuck. Shit.

Dean crouches down in front of the guy. Eyes shot with blood track his movement. He rubs his hand quickly over his chin. This looks like a tricky situation and he _should not_ get involved.

“You want me to call the P.O.?”

In the eyes, there is panic. The man draws in a quick breath, and then whines pitifully at the pain it produces. Slowly, he shakes his head.

“You in some shit?”

Slowly, a nod.

“Fuck.” Dean says aloud, “Then what the fuck am I supposed to do, huh? Just leave you here?”

Another nod.

“You’re joking.”

Nothing. Not a nod. Not a shake. The man closes his eyes.

Dean has all the absolution he needs. This guy told him himself to just leave. To leave him on the sidewalk to die. That should be it, shouldn’t it? Can’t feel guilty for doing what the guy says.

“Fucking shit.” Dean says to the low haze of smog that passes for a sky, “Fuck you.”

 

The trip home is not easy. It’s never that easy to begin with, but it’s ten times harder carrying a body. He’d looked slender, but this guy is deceptively heavy. Dean keeps telling himself that he doesn’t have to do this, that he could just drop this stranger wherever and be done with it. There’s nothing holding him to this. He hasn’t given anyone his word or taken anyone’s money for this. But every time he thinks about leaving this guy in another alley he gets this sick feeling in his stomach. Guilt. It’ll be his downfall. Has been before.

Dean is almost impressed with himself for making it all the way there carrying another person, and managing to avoid detection. He’s too annoyed to be proud though, especially when he has to fumble with his doorknob for a good ten minutes to get it open. He lives right up against the canal, in a room at the back of a fishery. Smells atrocious and it’s only one room and a bathroom, but it’s better than the street.

His bed is nothing to look at, but it’s better than the ground, and he sets the guy on it as gently as he can. Immediately, he curses himself again. So, what, he got this guy off the street? For what? So he can die in Dean’s bed instead? And then what’s going to happen to his body? God, this is the worst.

 

-o-

 

Everything hurts. Hurt is not a big enough word, or deep enough, to describe the pain he’s in. There is a moment, or maybe it’s an hour, a day, where he thinks he must be dead. But no, death would be a release. Being in this much pain must mean he’s alive. It fills him, his body and his head. There are no thoughts but _pain pain pain_ , and the question of whether he’ll die soon.

 

He has woken again, and he resents his body for pulling him back into the painful world of the upright. Can’t it just let him die? What good is it to be alive like this? What can he do but wait for death and hope that it finds him quickly?

It does not.

 

-o-

 

The young man has been on Dean’s bed for three days, fighting death. Dean isn’t really sure what to do. There’s a part of him that wishes this guy would just croak already and get it over with, but he always feels guilty after thinking that. He’s surprised, honestly, that the man is still holding on. He’s in bad shape, real bad. Dean isn’t a doctor but he’s pretty sure there’s some internal bleeding going on. So he figures it’ll be quick.

It’s not quick.

Three days, and Dean figures he has to do something. There’s one very clear option, but he doesn’t want to do it. He doesn’t want to go down that road. But… what are his other options?

Begrudgingly, he stomps down the street to a holophone booth. It’s two whole creds but it’s the most reliable way to get ahold of anyone and he wants this over fast. He punches in the numbers. He waits.

It’s only seconds before the screen blinks, and there’s his brother’s face.

There is a moment of confusion that has Dean’s heart clenching unpleasantly. Then, Sam’s face breaks into a smile.

“Dean!” He’s grown now, but he still manages to sound like a kid every time he says his brother’s name.

“Hey, nerd.”

“How are you? How’s everything?”

“Uh,” Dean scratches at the back of his neck, “Everything is normal, you know, taking it one day at a time.”

Sam’s smile falls a little until settled somewhere sadder. “You know you can come back, right?”

Dean’s heart thuds. It twists. Emotion wells up in his throat, but he’s not gonna cry. He’s not gonna do it. And he can’t go back, but Sam doesn’t really get that. There’s no way he can go back.

He doesn’t say it. Instead he says, “Yeah, well. How’s everything going with you?”

Sam’s smile grows again. He launches into a description of the medical internship he’s currently involved in. Dean doesn’t understand ¾ of it, but he nods along anyway. He could listen to Sam talk all day, about anything really. He won’t admit just how much he misses his little brother, because if he admits it he’ll have to feel it. Eventually, though, numbers start to blink in the upper right corner of the holophone screen and he has to cut Sam off.

“Listen,” He says, “I’m almost out of time. Uh, I have a little bit of a medical situation and I really don’t know who else to ask about it.”

“What is it? Did you get shot again?”

“Hah, no. Uh, I kinda have a guy in my room and he’s definitely dying and I don’t know what to do?”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Looks like he got into a fight with somebody who had boulders for hands.”

“Who is he?”

Dean fidgets. “Uh, technically, I have no idea.”

“You…”

“I kinda found him on the road.”

Sam’s face softens a little. He shakes his head. He says, “I’ll be there in an hour.”

“No, no, I just wanted some advice-”

“My advice is to wait for me to get there, jerk. I’ll see you in a bit.” He ends the call.

Dean stands there for a good five minutes. Sam, at his shithole room? It makes him want to throw up. But… he wants to see Sam again. How long has it been since he’s seen his brother in person? Too long.

He heads back to his room.

 

If Sam is appalled by his living situation, he doesn’t show it. He takes a cursory look around before pulling his brother into a hug. Its been too long coming, and Dean kind of wants to stay there. Then, it’s all business.

Sam kneels next to the cot that Dean calls a bed and looks at the young man. “How long have you had him here?”

“Three days.”

“And you didn’t wash the blood off of him?”

Dean shrugs, “I thought he’d be dead by now. No sense in cleaning him if he’s just going to croak.”

Sam frowns at him, but then gets to work. He starts to peel the man’s clothes away from flesh. He sends Dean for water, a bucket, a wash rag. Some of the clothing he has to cut away. He washes the blood off of the man’s skin to see the extent of his injuries.

It doesn’t look good, the man’s skin is mottled black, purple, blue, green, yellow. Sam looks him over with a critical gaze.

“These are older,” He points to some of the bruises, “He’s definitely been beat up before.”

This, for some reason, makes Dean’s stomach turn. There are cuts too, shallow ones, all over. Not quite enough to kill him, but enough that someone wanted him to bleed out slowly. Sam cleans them. He pulls ointment from the bag he brought and slathers it on them.

“That stuff expensive?” Dean asks.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“You didn’t take that from the hospital, did you?”

Sam gives him a side glance. “Don’t worry about it.” He says again.

“Sammy,” Dean tries his best stern voice, “Seriously, you can’t be stealing shit from the hospital. That’s your _job_.”

“Dean, it’s fine. I promise.”

Dean shakes his head, but he lets it go. He knows where this fight will lead. Sam will say something about Dean’s past, and then they’ll start shouting and everything will go downhill. He can’t handle that right now.

“How have things been?” Dean asks after a while, when Sam has gotten into the swing of things.

“Good.” Says Sam, “Would be better with you there.”

Dean says nothing. This too is an age-old argument. No use going through it all again. Sam knows it too, and he moves the conversation to the hospital he’s working at, to the girl he’s seeing, to Bobby, to work they’re doing on the house. These are subjects that make the wounds in Dean’s heart ache, but there’s nothing to be done about it. He’s glad to hear that Sam is happy and safe.

When Sam finally leaves, it’s bittersweet. He’s glad to have seen his little brother, but parting again is harder than Dean would like to admit. He misses Sam. He misses Bobby. He misses home.

 

The day after Sam comes, the young man wakes up.

Dean is putting more of the ointment that Sam left on the man’s wounds. Maybe he’s not being as gentle as Sam was, but his are not surgeon’s hands. There is a cut on the young man’s side, deeper than the rest, that Dean is covering with ointment when a hand lashes out and grabs his wrist. The grip is weak, but when Dean looks up the man’s eyes are wild.

“Who are you?” He gasps. He squints his eyes shut as if wishing away a headache.

“It’s alright,” Says Dean, “I’m not gonna hurt you. I’ve just got this stuff for your cuts.”

He reaches toward the wound again, and the man flinches back, as much as he can in such a small space.

“Who the fuck are you?” The man says again. He starts to sit up and winces at the pain it causes. He’s gasping air. “Where am I? _Where am I_?” He leans over the side of the cot and empties the contents of his stomach on the floor.

“Jesus,” Says Dean, only having narrowly avoided the puke, “Come on, man.”

He’s still leaning over the edge of the cot, gasping air like he’s just run a mile. If he doesn’t slow down, Dean thinks, he’s going to puke again. The young man looks down at himself, then, and puts a hand on his bare chest.

“Why am I naked?” He’s shaking, trembling like a leaf, “What- what-”

“Okay,” Says Dean, holding up both hands, “look at me. Just for a minute, okay?” He has to get this under control. This guy is on the edge of a full-scale melt down and Dean would just love for that not to happen. The young man looks at him. His eyes still shot with streaks of blood.

“You’re safe.” Is what Dean says, “I didn’t do anything to you, I swear. Your clothes were ruined, they’re gone. I found you on the road. You were- I don’t know, i’m pretty sure you were dying. You’re in my house now.”

Bare facts, but hopefully they’ll do the trick. He’s not sure what else there is to say.

The man looks at him. He looks confused. He looks sad. He shakes his head.

“You… you brought me here?”

“Yeah.”

“From off the street?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Why?”

Dean shakes his head. He shrugs. “I don’t know. I didn’t want to just… leave you there.”

The man looks at him. He blinks slowly, and then his eyes track around the room quickly. “How long?”

“Like, four days.”

The young man’s fingers on his right hand all twitch at once. “I have to go,” He says, “I have to-” He starts to sit up and cuts himself off with a cry of pain. He slumps back onto the bed, purpled fingers to purpled chest.

“Gods,” He whispers, “I’m dying.”

“That’s what _I_ said.” Dean tells him, “But you’re still here.”

The man shakes his head. He closes his eyes. “I’ll die soon.” He promises.

Dean hesitates, but the question is already on the tip of his tongue. “Hey, what’s your name?”

“What does it matter?”

“If you die, I’ll say something over your body. But I need your name.”

The young man swallows slowly, as if it pains him. If the bruises around his throat are any indication, it likely does.

“Cas,” He says finally, “Castiel.”

“Fancy name.” Says Dean.

“Good name for a corpse.” Castiel rasps.


	2. Whelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In This Chapter:  
> \- Castiel is a Grump  
> \- Dean has Secrets

Whelve

_Verb_

_To bury something deep, to hide_

 

-

 

Having Castiel awake is different. Dean thought it might be easier, that maybe he’d even get back his bed, but it’s quickly apparent that that’s not the case. Castiel can barely sit up. There are probably things broken inside of him, and the way he vacantly stares at the ceiling suggests it might not all be physical.

“This is beyond my fucking pay grade, man.” Says Dean, who is not getting paid at all.

“I didn’t ask you to rescue me.” Says Castiel. His voice is soft, but brittle.

“Yeah, well, I did. You’re fucking welcome. I’m Dean, by the way, thanks for asking.”  
Castiel looks at him. He blinks slowly, like a cat. He says nothing, but Dean hadn’t really expected him to. He’s got that look in his eyes, that guilty kind of despair. He wishes he _had_ died and Dean can read it plain as a road sign. He should, been there enough times himself.

“Here,” Dean sets a bowl on the upturned box that serves as a bedside table, “you gotta eat something. Haven't eaten in, what, five days?”

Castiel turns his head away, toward the wall.

“What, you want me to feed it to you? You’ve got to eat or you’ll starve to death.”

Still, nothing. Dean picks the bowl up and waves it under Castiel’s nose. It’s just a nutri-mixture, thick enough to eat with a fork, but the smell of any kind of food should be enough to make Castiel snap at this point. Snap he does, though not in the way Dean expects. He’s waving the bowl beneath Castiel’s nose when a hand shoots out. It knocks the bowl out of Dean’s hands and to the floor, spilling its contents along the way.

The waste of it burns Dean first, he paid good creds for that! He paid for that food and this asshole just knocks it out of his hand like it’s nothing.

“The fuck is your problem?” He snaps, “You got creds coming out of your ass? ‘Cause I sure don’t. You got no business wasting my food just ‘cause you wish you were dead. You can eat the damn food I offer you and die on your own time, hear me?”

Finally, Castiel turns his head toward him. “You could just _not_ offer me food.”

“You’ll starve.”

“You _just_ said I could die.”

“On your own time. Once you’re healed up and on your way, it’s none of my business. Right now, it _is_ my business. You’re in my bed and you’re my responsibility.”

“I could be someplace else.”

“Oh, yeah? Go ahead then, get up and leave.”

There is a moment when Castiel considers it, Dean can see it in his eyes. Then, he remembers the pain of trying to move. He doesn’t get up. He says, “Fuck you.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Dean goes and gets another bowl, more of the nutri-mix. This time, he holds it with both hands.

“You knock this one out of my hands and I’ll take the creds out of your account myself.”

Castiel huffs, a sound that might possibly be a laugh. “Good luck.”

“What, you broke?”

Castiel holds out his arm in one stilted motion, soft underneath up. “See for yourself.”

It’s unusual, looking at someone else’s creds. It’s not done, not like this, anyway. Dean takes hold of Castiel’s arm and runs his thumb over the square tattoo just at the base of Castiel’s wrist. A bit further up his arm, a blue rectangle begins to glow.

“Pass?” Says Dean. He doesn’t like this, it feels like an intrusion. He shouldn’t be looking at this.

Castiel’s other arm comes slowly to press his own thumb to the square. The rectangle blinks. White numbers dance onto the tiny screen.

“Holy shit,” He says, “You’re more broke than I am.”

A piece of the puzzle shifts into place. “You get robbed?”

“In a way.”

Dean looks at him, but Castiel is looking away again. “Cryptic.” and then, “Can you sit up?”

To his credit, Castiel tries. He even gets one elbow underneath him before he goes white and slumps back down. His breath comes short. “I can’t.”

“Somebody got you good, huh?”

Castiel says nothing. He closes his eyes.

“Alright, i’m gonna help you sit up against the wall, okay? It’s gonna hurt.”

“I’m fine like this.”

“Gotta eat. And I have to put more of that salve on your wounds, easier if you’re sitting.”

“I don’t want to do either of those things.”

“Yeah, well, you have to. So,”

Castiel scowls, then grimaces as the movement pulls the purpling skin of his cheek.

Moving Castiel is a slow, delicate process. He’s bruised up all over, cut in just as many places. It takes time for Dean to find places to get a grip on him that won’t immediately pain him. He finally gets one hand under Castiel’s arm and the other on his opposite side, but the moment he starts to move him he meets resistance.

“Stop,” Castiel says, “Fuck. Stop, _please_.”

Dean stops, and finds Castiel white faced once again. He’s taking in short gasps of breath.

“I can’t do this.” Says Castiel, “It- I can’t. It hurts too much.”

“Alright, uh, any ideas?”

“Let me die.”

“Listen, i’m not gonna do that, okay? I carried your ass all the way down here from midtown, i’m not about to turn around and let you croak on purpose.”

Castiel blinks. “Midtown?” He says it slowly, as if it’s an unfamiliar word on his tongue, “You found me in midtown?”

“Yeah,” Says Dean, “In an alley pretty close to the donut express.”

Castiel shakes his head slowly. “Where am I now?”

“Down by the canal.”

“In the Below?”

“Where else.”

“That would explain the smell.”

“Hey, fuck you. Your nose doesn’t even work, it’s broke to shit.”

“And somehow I still manage to smell piss and fish.”

Dean flexes his jaw. “You’re trying to piss me off, aren’t you? You want me to kill you, that’s what’s happening. Anybody ever call you a dick?”

Castiel exhales slowly. “You have no idea.”

“Alright, let’s try this again.” Says Dean, clapping his hands and reaching for Castiel.

“No,” Says Castiel, “Dean, please.”

The use of his name stops Dean short, the pleading behind it. “I need to sit you up.”

“Can you put something behind me, maybe? I don’t think I can handle you moving me against the wall.”

Dean looks around. What could he put behind castiel? He has no extra pillows, but maybe a blanket that could work. He scrounges it out from underneath the bed, but it’s not quite enough. He needs something more, something substantial.

“Wait here.” He says.

 

-o-

 

Dean has gone. Where, it’s hard to say. It’s hard to say anything, though, hard enough to think around the pounding in his head. Everything is tinged with red and pain. Every time he moves it’s like he’s being pierced with blades all over again. He doesn’t want to be here, he doesn’t want to be awake. He should be dead, like her. He should be in the embrace of the long, gentle sleep. Instead he’s here, in this dingy apartment, in more pain than he’s ever been in.

And everything is still over. Everything is still in ruins. There is no bringing any of it back, and yet he is still here. Why? Why?

“Alright,” Dean’s voice breaks through Castiel’s haze of pain, “Found pillows. They should work.”

Castiel would like to know where he found them. They’re not Dean’s, that much is clear. They are a bright floral pattern, and cleaner than anything in this apartment. When Dean’s tosses them on the bed Castiel catches a whiff of a floral perfume.

“You ready?”

Castiel shakes his head. “No.”

“I’ll make it quick.”

Dean’s hands are like fire, one under his arm, one on his side. It’s such a strange thing, to be touched. Castiel can’t remember the last time he’s been touched gently. Not that Dean’s touch is gentle, but it’s not trying to hurt him either. He yearns for it, for kindness, in the same moment that he wishes for death. And what of it? He can want both, can’t he? Kindness and death? They are one and the same.

When Dean sits him up, Castiel almost loses consciousness. It’s too much. It’s way, way too much. He cries out, he can’t stop himself. Shockwaves of pain roll over him, lance through him. He won’t make it.

And then, he has. He’s sitting up. There are pillows and a blanket behind him. But he hurts too much, and everything is dimming.

A point of fire, Dean’s hand on his face. It is gentle. A human touch, grounding him back to reality.

 

-o-

 

“Shit,” Dean curses, “Fuck. Don’t pass out, come on.”

Castiel slumps forward, head lolling sideways on his shoulder, and then jerks back awake with a groan.

“Alright, alright,” Dean regrets sitting Castiel up, but it’s necessary. He has to eat, he needs more ointment applied to his wounds. But sitting up seems to have pained him past the point of wakefulness. His eyes slip closed again, and back open.

This is a mistake, Dean curses himself, he can’t take care of an injured person. He can’t do this. But it’s too late, isn’t it? What else is there? Dump him in the canal? He’s no monster. Can’t trust the Peace Officers, and the one hospital that the Below boasts is more of a joke than this apartment.

Dean shakes his head. He sighs. “Guess you’re staying.” He says to the air.

It takes some time, but Castiel does wake up again. He’s none too happy about it.

“You’re trying to kill me.” He croaks.

“Yeah, that’s the grand plan.” Dean holds a cup of water out to him, “Here, you’re probably dehydrated.”

Castiel’s hands come up, but too many of his fingers won’t quite bend right. Their joints are bruised, bleeding, swollen. Dean has had the unfortunate experience of someone stomping on his fingers, and he knows it’s no picnic.

“Let me,” He says, bringing the cup to Castiel’s mouth as gently as he can. Easier said done, and he ends up spilling about half of it down Castiel’s bare chest.

Castiel frowns at the mess.

“Yeah, I know.” Says Dean, “I don’t have any other blankets so you’re just gonna have to let it dry.”

“Do you have something I could wear? I feel… exposed.”

“I mean probably, but I think you’ll just pass out again if you move enough to actually, you know, put them on.”

Castiel scowls at him, then down at his hands. He says nothing more.

Food is, once again, more of a hassle than it’s probably worth.

“I can feed myself.” Says Castiel, turning his head away from the fork that Dean has offered to him.

“Can you?” Dean looks at Castiel’s hands skeptically.

“Yes.” He reaches out to take it but, once again, his fingers won’t cooperate. He curses quietly as the utensil slips through his fumbling grasp.

He tries to clench his hand into a fist and grimaces again.

“You want help?” Says Dean.

“Fuck you.” Says Castiel, “I’m not a child, I don’t need to be fed.”

Dean makes himself comfortable on the edge of the bed, and looks up to find Castiel scowling at him again. “What?”

“Are you just going to watch me?”

“I don’t have a holoset.”

Castiel looks like he wants to take a swing at Dean, but thinks better of it.

“I’m not going to eat if you just sit there and watch me like a creep.”

“Here’s the thing though, I have this suspicion that if I don’t sit here and watch you you’re just going to pour it on the floor or something.”

“And how is that your business?”

“I paid for that fuckin’ food.”

“So don’t feed me. I don’t want to eat, don’t waste the food.”

“You have to eat or you’ll starve.”

“So what?”

“So you’re not starving in my house. Like I said, as soon as you’re better you can leave and starve all you want, but you’re not going to die while you’re here.”

Castiel’s eyes could burn holes in Dean’s face, and he’s certainly giving it his best shot. Fortunately for everyone, he doesn’t have laser eyes.

“Eat.” Says Dean.

Castiel looks like he’s going to protest again, but a low whine sounds from his stomach. He closes his eyes, jaw working furiously. His stomach continues to grumble.

“Fine.” He says, he takes a deep breath, and then, very quietly, “Can you help me?”

It’s not a fun experience for either of them. Castiel glowers the entire time, and Dean has other things he could be doing, thank you very much. He’s reminded once again that he did this to himself. He picked this scowling young man with an obvious death wish out of the gutter and brought him here all on his own. This is his own damn fault.

“Will you hold still?”  
“Stop moving the spoon around then.”

“I would if you would _hold still_.”

It’s like feeding Sammy as a toddler, except that Sam never looked like he wanted Dean to be eaten by canal worms.

And then, there is the ointment.

“I can do it myself.” Castiel insists.

“Can you?”

“Yes.”

Dean could point out that the mere act of sitting up recently drove Castiel into unconsciousness. He could remind Castiel that his fingers look like they’ve been through a blender, and ask him how he’s expecting to reach the wounds on his back, exactly.

He does not. He unscrews the lid off of the bottle of ointment and sets it on the blanket next to Castiel’s leg.

They both look down at it. Castiel draws in a slow breath, and reaches out with his mangled fingers. His fingers dip into the ointment and come back out looking wet. His movements are so slow that Dean can barely stand it, he goes from one wound to the next with focus and snail-speed. He gets the wounds on his chest, arms, and some on his neck. He moves the blanket covering his bottom half aside with a hand that has begun to tremble.

“Could you _not_ stare, please?” He says.

Dean turns his head away from the criss-cross of straight-lined burns on Castiel’s thighs. He had been making coffee when Sam cleaned these wounds, he hadn’t seen them. So, not a robbery then? This is beyond a simple beating. What thief would take the time to do something like this? Something that whispers of the artistic, of the sadistic.

“Are you going to tell me-”

“No.” Castiel cuts him off.

“You don’t know what I was going to ask.”

“Yes, I do.”

No more to be said, Dean keeps his eye on the wall while Castiel works.

“Dean,” Castiel says after some time, “I can’t reach the bottom of my legs.”

They are, perhaps, the least injured part of him, and it only takes Dean a few moments to finish them.

“Also,” Castiel says, begrudgingly, “I can’t get my back. Or my shoulders.”

Dean does not want to get Castiel’s back. He’s seen it once already and he’s not eager to again. He won’t say so though, and he adjusts his position on the edge of the bed so that he’s right at Castiel’s back. It’s a horror, cuts and welts over layers of scar tissue. The whole thing is a sunset of purple and green and blue. Dean can’t help that his fingers are so much gentler here, there’s already been so much pain.

It doesn’t help that Castiel begins to tremble after a few moments of Dean’s ministrations. His head is bowed, his arms crossed in front of him as best they can be, and he’s shaking.

Dean puts a hand flat against the middle of Castiel’s back. “You okay?”

One small, short nod. “Yes.”

“Sure?”

“I said yes, didn’t I?” Castiel snaps.

“Alright, chill.” Says Dean. He continues on, ignoring the way Castiel’s skin flinches away from him.

 

For two more days, this is how it goes; Dean sleeping on the floor and getting up to help Castiel eat, drink, apply ointment. Trips to the bathroom aren’t something he wants to think about. Castiel is always seething, always angry, and it frays on Dean’s nerves until he can’t stand it anymore.

It’s around noon when he shrugs on his jacket, pulls on his boots, and shoves his goggles into a pocket. He stands and stretches, only to find Castiel glaring at him.

“Where are you going?”

“Work.” Says Dean, “Haven't done shit in a week.”

“And what is it you do, exactly?” Castiel looks at him with appraisal, “Whore?”

“Fuck you.” Says Dean.

Castiel laughs. A bark of it pulled from his insides through unknown means. It’s an entirely unexpected sound, and it almost makes Dean jump. Castiel winces at the pain in his side, and adjusts his guess, “Thief.”

It’s not a question, but a statement. He’s got it all figured out. Dean shakes his head and ignores him, but his stride to the door is cut short by another statement.

“You were, though.”

“What?” His hand is on the knob. He can just leave.

“A whore. I’ve seen you before, I think it was a year ago? At Madam Truette’s.”

Dean’s hand clenches around the doorknob. His other hand makes a fist. He remembers Madam Truette’s vividly, it keeps coming back like a bad dream. Smoke. Beads. Grasping hands.

“Congratulations.” He says, fighting to keep the emotion out of his voice and failing miserably, “You saw me on the worst week of my fucking life. You know a secret about me, you happy?”

“Oh,” Says Castiel.

Dean does not wait for more, he can’t. If he stays, he’s not sure what he’ll do. He might scream. He might throw something. He might break down, and that would be unforgivable.

He wrenches open the door and stomps out into the world.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so i'll be updating on Mondays. I know this chapter was a little slow, but I promise more excitement next chapter.


	3. Lethologica

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cue the nonsense sci-fi words!

Lethologica 

_ noun _

the inability to remember a particular word or name.

  
-

 

The air is thick with smog, the acrid smell of fumes from the subsurface drills make Dean’s nose itch. The smell of dust and too many human bodies stick to his skin like a film. 

He should hate it. So many others do. But, perched atop a stone building, breathing it all in, it feels right. It feels like home. The flashing neon lights from the dance hall, visible even in daylight, feel like the warm embrace of a relative. The constant sound of people talking and shouting from the street below is a lullaby. But, there’s one thing he’s missing. 

Dean swings down the metal railing at the side of the building with a practiced ease, boots hitting the ground with a muffled thump that reverberates all the way up to his knees. His feet know the route better than he does, and he’s free to think while he walks. Not that it does much good. 

The joint he finally shoulders his way into is so small that it can’t even really be called an “eatery”, it’s barely a pit stop. One counter, three stools with only about a foot in between them and the window. He sits in the one furthest from the door, which isn’t saying much at all. 

“Anybody here?” He raps hard enough on the counter that his knuckles sing.

“No,” Comes a voice from somewhere in the back, “And rushing me isn’t gonna get you shit. You know that.” 

“Never known a thing in my life.” Says Dean.

“Now that I believe.” The man who appears from nowhere is too big for the shop, too big for the Below. Broad-shouldered and friendly faced, he doesn’t belong here. The off-world accent is a good giveaway too. Dean remembers when the man first arrived, no one had expected him to last a week. That was about seven years ago.

“Don’t act like you got anything going on in that brain, Benny.” 

Benny shakes his head. “Just wind through the pipes. You want food, or what?”

“Eh, what’ll,” He checks the screen on his arm, “five creds get me?”

Benny’s guffaw shakes the entirety of the tiny room. “Won’t get you shit.” He says. 

Dean makes a show of digging through his pockets. “What about this?” He sets a delicate chain on the counter, with glittering gems set along its length. 

“Well that’ll get you somethin’ pretty, for sure.” Benny swipes the necklace quickly before it can be seen by prying eyes. “Don’t know why you always gotta make such a show of it.”

Dean shrugs one shoulder. “It’s a hobby.”

“Find another one.”

“What do you think?” Dean prods.

Behind the counter, Benny examines the necklace more thoroughly. “Good quality. Nice chain. The gems are erozium, which is pretty common.”

“Doesn’t mean they’re cheap though.” 

Benny shrugs a shoulder. If it were anybody else, Dean would be sure he’s trying to cheat him out of money. But it’s Benny. Benny is an honest guy, just another reason he doesn’t belong on this shithole planet. 

“I’ll give you a hundred for it.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s the best you’re gonna do.”

Dean huffs. “Yeah, I know. Fine.”

Benny makes the cred exchange deftly, a much practiced move. Then, he looks at Dean. He keeps looking at him. 

“What’s wrong?” He says finally.

“Didn’t say anything was wrong.” 

“But somethin’ is.”

Dean frowns at him. “That obvious?”

“How long have we known each other?”

“Too damn long.”

“That’s for sure. Point being, I know that face. Somethin’s up.”

Dean chews his bottom lip. He sighs. “I got… I got myself into something.”

“How bad?”

“I mean, I’m not in trouble. Really,” He says, to Benny’s incredulous look, “It’s just, I think it’s more than I can handle.”

Benny’s face screws up, “Now you got me all confused.”

“I kind of agreed to take care of someone,” He changes the truth a little bit, just enough, “someone who is hurt pretty bad, but is also kind of a dick. And I don’t know if I can keep helping him.”

Benny thinks. He pulls a bowl of fried fly-crickets from behind the counter and sets them in front of Dean. 

“Why’d you agree to help him in the first place?”

“Couldn’t just let him suffer.”

Benny grins. “‘Cause you’re a good person.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Shove it.”

“You know it’s true. No point in arguing forever.” He shakes his head, “Listen, I don’t know your situation. But sometimes people lash out when they’re in pain. You and me, we know that.”

Dean draws a deep breath and leans back on the stool. “Yeah. He’s just really fucking frustrating though, pisses me off.”

“Eh, well. You piss off almost everybody you meet. Maybe it’s time someone returned the favor, huh?”

“Fuck you, old man.” Dean says, good naturedly. 

“You wish.” Says Benny. 

 

It’s growing dark when Dean finally makes it home, stomach full and creds refreshed. The apartment is dark, he forgot to turn on a lamp when he left. 

“Dean?” Castiel’s voice comes as soon as Dean steps inside.

“Yeah.”

Castiel sighs, “Good.” the relief is audible in his voice, “Dean, I apologize for what I said earlier, I-”

“It’s no big deal.” Says Dean, despite all evidence to the contrary. He flicks on two lamps, and can finally see Castiel, in the exact same place he was in when Dean left. 

“No, I’ve been thinking about it all day, and I shouldn’t have said it. I- I don’t always think about the things I say and I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Huh,” Says Dean, “You’re all worked up about this, aren’t you?”

There is a long, pregnant pause. Castiel swallows. He takes a breath. Finally, he says, “You saved my life. Maybe you shouldn’t have, but the point is that you did. I’m making your life more difficult and you’re not getting anything out of it, and I- I shouldn’t be such an ass.”

Dean lets out a long breath. Something in his chest loosens, tension seeping away. He sits down on the edge of the bed. “Eh, ‘s not all your fault. I’m not exactly easy to live with.”

“I’m sorry about what I said.” Castiel reiterates. 

“Apology accepted.”

“Can I ask…”

Dean squints at him. “How about this: I’ll answer a question of yours, but only if you answer a question of mine.”

Castiel frowns. “That doesn’t seem fair.”

“ _ There  _ he is. I knew you were being too agreeable.”

Castiel frowns harder. “My past is… delicate.”

“Yeah, well, mine too.”

There is another long stretch of quiet. “Fine.” Castiel says at the end of it, “It’s a deal. But I want to ask my question first.”

“Yeah, alright.”

“You said that I saw you on the worst week of your life. Why was it the worst week?”

An ache blooms in Dean’s chest, and behind his eyes. He hates talking about this. He hates dragging the memories out of their shallow graves and into the light. He closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again, he only looks at the wall.

“That was the week my dad died.” He says. “And I couldn’t go home. I had no place to go, so I went to a brothel. Had no money, so I worked.”

“Dean, i’m sorry.” Castiel says. One of his hands twitch, like he’s going to reach out but thinks better of it. 

Dean shrugs. What else is there to say? Talking about it won’t bring his dad back. It won’t undo what has been done. He clears his throat and forces himself to move past the feeling clogging his chest. 

“My turn.” He says, “How long have you been getting the shit beat out of you?”

Castiel blinks, “Huh?”

“You got too many scars for just fights. Someone has been kickin’ you for a while.”

Castiel looks at him. It’s a more calculating look than Dean has seen before. Castiel turns his eyes back to the ceiling. “I suppose… it’s been a while. Maybe seven years? I joined when I was… thirteen?”

“Joined what?”

Castiel’s shakes his head slowly. “I answered your question. Do you want to keep playing this game?”

It’s dangerous. Dean  _ knows  _ it’s dangerous. He doesn’t want to give up his secrets, his memories. They shouldn’t be spoken aloud. Besides that, he doesn’t know what Castiel will do with them, or how he’ll treat them. They need to be handled carefully. There’s something about Castiel that makes Dean think of a snake, coiled in the grass waiting to strike. 

He shakes his head. “I’m done. You want something to eat?”

“I suppose.” Says Castiel, and then, “Maybe we can play again later.”

It’s a chilling thought, but an intriguing one too. 

“You’re not going to argue about eating?”

“Is there a point?”

“No.”

“Well I don’t engage in pointless pursuits.”

“Yeah? When did you decide that?”

“Just now.”

“Ahuh.”

“I should build up my strength so that I can leave and then throw myself off of something tall.”

Dean opens a pack of nutri-mix at the tiny kitchen counter, mere feet away from the bed. “Anybody ever call you dramatic?” He looks over his shoulder in time to see Castiel’s hand twitch.

“No.” Castiel says.

“Liar.”

Castiel does not negate the accusation. He says nothing. He continues to say nothing until Dean brings a bowl of the nutri-mix to the bed and sits down. Castiel is staring at the ceiling. 

“Uh,” Says Dean, “You okay?”

Castiel blinks twice in rapid succession. He looks at Dean, and blinks again. Finally, he seems to see. “Yes.”

“Okay,” Dean says slowly, “You, uh, you go somewhere just now?”

“I’ve been here this whole time.” Says Castiel.

“Yeah, no, I mean like, mentally.” 

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“Yeah,” Dean shakes his head, “Guess not.” 

Castiel eats in silence, without protest for the first time. It’s practically peaceful, but Dean can’t shake the feeling that something isn’t quite right. He wishes he knew what was going on in Castiel’s head, that inscrutable place. But he can’t ask, he won’t get an answer. Those are the facts. 

After the food, it’s time for the ointment. It’s still very slow going, but Castiel’s wounds are finally beginning to heal. It’s easier to sit him up, and he goes less pale every day. Still, it isn’t easy. Castiel can do most of his front, but Dean still has to get his back. But it’s healing, it’s all healing. 

Castiel has taken to staring at his hands for long periods of time when he’s sitting up. Just looking at them, frowning unhappily. 

“Why do you do that?” Dean asks.

Castiel’s eyes snap up to him. They stare for a good long while, deciding. “Show me your hands.” He says finally. 

Dean wipes his ointment-covered hands on the blanket and then puts them in front of Castiel for his perusal.

Castiel puts his own hands next to Dean’s. They are still swollen, bruised, broken. He cannot fully extend any of his fingers. 

“I was thinking of all the things I used to be able to do that I can’t anymore.”

“They’ll get better.” Dean says, “Give it time.”

“No, they won’t. They won’t get back to normal, at least. You know, I…” He trails off, staring down at his hands. 

“What?” Dean says gently, as if coaxing a wild animal.

“I used to…”

Dean waits. Castiel’s frown deepens. 

“I used to love to play piano.” He says it so quietly that Dean almost mistakes it for the wind. 

“You can-”

“No, I can’t.” Castiel cuts him off, “They’ll never be the same. They’ll never be fast enough again, they’ll never be nimble enough. My body…” He closes his eyes, “It’s ruined. It will never be what it was. I will never be able to do what I did.” 

“Man, you have to give it time.”

“Dean, I appreciate your care, but it’s not exactly expert, is it? You’re not a doctor. I might be healing, but i’m not healing  _ well _ .”

“Healing is something, isn’t it?”

“Not for me!” The shout is unexpected. It drives Dean backward to the floor. “I have to- I have to- I have to  _ finish it _ ! And how am I supposed to do that now?  _ How  _ am I supposed to right it now, with these  _ stupid, useless things.”  _ He slams one hand into the wall with a surprising amount of power. Again. And again. 

“Stars, quit it.” Dean is on his feet in an instant, grasping Castiel’s wrists in the next. “What the hell are you doing?”

“It’s  _ useless _ .” Castiel fumes. His eyes have taken on the look of a wild animal. His breath is fast. His face is wet. 

“Hey, hey.” Dean grips the back of Castiel’s neck with his free hand, “It’s doing its best. It can only do so much. You have to give things time.”  
  
“Fuck you,” Castiel says again, but he seems to have broken past rage and into sadness. His head is on Dean’s shoulder, his thin frame shaking. 

A sudden guilt for all the mean things he’s thought about Castiel overcomes Dean. Here is a man who is broken. Here is a man who has had  _ something  _ ripped away from him. It’s more than just his body, Dean can feel it, he has lost something very important. He won’t ask what. It’s too personal, it’s too deep a cut.  He won’t prod. Internal wounds are trickier than the external and Dean knows that too well. They’re harder to get to, easier to hide. 

 

-o-

 

Castiel cannot remember the last time he was held, at least gently. Of course, there was  _ her _ , but that’s something altogether different. This, his head on a shoulder, a hand on the back of his neck, it’s such a wild thing. It makes him shake more, drags more tears from him, but only because of the alien nature of it. 

Dean’s hand on the back of his neck is somehow the most comforting and, in the same moment, the most maddening thing that could possibly be happening. 

Who does he think he is? But also, could he please keep doing this for a very long time? There is a metallic taste in Castiel’s mouth. Memories, drawn to the forefront of his mind by the smell of the blood on his teeth, swim across his vision. 

The apartment. The constant stink of dust and the flash of ads outside the window. The smell of lemon. Long, red hair. Mother. High laughter. Mischievous eyes. Short red hair. Anna. 

And what would they think of him now? A broken mess, in some stranger’s apartment in the Below. But then, maybe Dean isn’t as much of a stranger as Castiel thought. He has been unusually kind. Would anyone else have saved him? Would anyone else have taken care of him, let him sleep in their bed? He has a suspicion that they would not have. 

 

-o-

 

Like a child, Castiel has cried himself out. His head is still on Dean’s shoulder, but he’s not moving anymore. He could be asleep, were it not for the occasional sniffle. Dean will not move, he cannot risk breaking this fragile glass that surrounds them for the moment. His hand is still on the back of Castiel’s neck, the way he remembers Uncle Bobby doing for him when he was young. He recalls it being comforting, though he can’t remember why. But the gesture is comforting for him as well. The warm skin beneath his palm, weight against his shoulder. He can feel Castiel’s heartbeat. The steady rhythm of it calms him too. 

It’s a very long time before Castiel moves. He sits up slowly, avoiding Dean’s eyes. His face is still wet, he rubs it with a rough hand, and his voice is weak. 

“I think i’d like to go to sleep.” He says.

“Yeah, alright.” Dean stands and stretches his arms up over his head. Several things pop and snap. He looks at the spot on the floor where he’s been sleeping and suppresses the urge to sigh. 

“Wait,” Says Castiel, “I-”

“What?”  
  
Castiel is looking at him now, frowning furiously. “I’m in better shape than I was. I think we can both fit on the bed now.”

It takes a moment for his words to register. Dean looks at the bed. There’s not a lot of room, but there is some. It’s better than the floor. 

“Are you sure?”

“It’s your bed.” Says Castiel.

“Yeah, but,” Dean shrugs. 

“I think i’ll be alright. Things… hurt much less than they did.” 

“Probably a good sign.”

“One would think.”

It shouldn’t be strange getting into his own bed. He shouldn’t feel like an interloper, like he’s putting someone else out by sleeping comfortably. But he’s jittery as he turns off the light by the door, as he climbs carefully into the small space that Castiel has made for him. 

Castiel is not naked anymore, thank heaven. Clad in loose-fitting boxers and a t-shirt of Dean’s that hangs off of him like terepha skin. Getting him dressed had been a process, but everything is. Dean asks himself once again why he has done this to himself. Willingly. He did it  _ willingly _ . 

Laying next to someone, too, is strange. The last time he shared a bed was when he was just a kid, when him and Sam shared. He’s had hookups too, but he’s never stayed over and neither have they. He doesn’t like it, there’s no room and Castiel’s leg against his is a line of fire. He lays there, staring at the ceiling, long after Castiel’s breathing has evened out. 

He will not say that it’s nice to have another arm pressed against his. He will not say that the sound of breathing next to him is almost soothing, or that the heat of another body is nice when it’s so cold. He will not say it, because it isn’t true and he  _ does not  _ like this. 


	4. Selcouth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like you guys are going to like this chapter. Let me know what you think!
> 
> WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER:  
> \- a small amount of sexual content at the end

Selcouth

_ adjective _

strange ,  unusual ,  rare ;  unfamiliar ;  marvellous ,  wondrous .

  
-

 

The strange weight of Castiel’s body next to him in the small bed has become a balm. It comes as a shock to his heart when Dean realizes that he has  _ missed  _ other people. He has missed conversation, the security of knowing that someone else will be in the same place with you. He has missed sharing a bed with another warm person. He has missed sharing meals, if only he had real food to work with instead of just nutri-mix. That said, it’s far from fun and games. 

Castiel’s arm lashes out, smacking Dean in the gut. It’s not a great way to be startled awake, and Dean jackknifes up, ready to fight. It only takes a moment to see that Castiel is dreaming. He’s flailing at invisible enemies, face set in an angry scowl. 

Dean makes a grab for his wrist just as he begins shouting.  
  
“Stop!” Castiel cries out in his dream, “stop,  _ please _ .”

Dean doesn’t know how early it is, but he knows he has to stop Castiel from shouting or someone is going to get upset. He grabs again at Castiel arm, but is not prepared for the back of a hand to slam into his face. 

“ _ Stars _ ,” Dean curses, “how did that hurt? You can’t even make a freakin’ fist.”

The jolt has woken Castiel up. He gasps. Once, twice. Then he begins to shake, the heels of his hands go to his eyes. He cannot stop the overflow of tears that leak out around his hands. 

Dean rubs his jaw once more and then reaches out to put a hand on Castiel’s elbow. 

“It was just a dream.” He says. 

He knows all about bad dreams. He has them all the time; especially, but not limited to, Dad’s death. He knows how you wake up feeling like somebody hollowed you out with a spoon. 

“A dream.” He says again. 

Castiel shakes his head. “It happened.” His voice is like a frog’s croak. 

“In the past.”

“It  _ happened _ .”

“It’s over.” Dean scoots closer to put one hand on Castiel’s side. “You’re not- wherever you were. You’re here now. You’re in my apartment, by the canal.”

“Apartment is a generous word.” Castiel says, and for a moment Dean thinks he’s back to normal. Then he begins to sob fully. 

“Ah, man.” Says Dean, “Come here.” 

Castiel rolls onto his side fairly easily, but when Dean tries to pull him closer a hand comes out to shove him back. And then, it is yielding, and Castiel’s head is leaning onto Dean’s chest. 

“I couldn’t save her.” Castiel whispers. 

“Yeah, I know.” Dean does not know who Castiel is talking about, but he understands the feeling. He understands that guilt. He puts one hand on the back of Castiel’s head. He’s not sure why, exactly, only that it feels like the right thing to do. He holds Castiel.

 

Things have reached a fragile sort of peace. Castiel is not okay yet, but he’s healing. Dean can leave him a book and go out to work and not worry too much about what might happen while he’s gone. In fact, he takes to keeping an eye out for books when he’s out and about. When he sells something to Benny, he might also stop by a thrift shop on his way home. Books are about the cheapest thing he can possibly get, people barely bother with them anymore. Everybody reads feeds instead, on tablets or on implants. But Dean doesn’t even have a holoset, he can’t afford a tablet and, if he’s being honest, even the idea of implants make him feel all jittery. 

The first time he got home and tossed a book on the bed, Castiel had not been impressed. He had taken the thing gingerly by two fingers and examined it with distaste. Then Dean had reminded him that there is nothing else to do all day, and he had relented. 

Castiel seems to have developed a taste for books since then, and now perks up eagerly when Dean comes home with one. 

“Never read a book before?” Dean asks one day.

“On the feeds, sure. I read plenty. But this is different, isn’t it? Having the physical thing, it makes the story more tangible. And I never read for fun before. I never read  _ stories _ .” 

“What do you think?”

Castiel presses the worn paperback in his hands to his chest. “It’s a wonderful thing.”

Dean huffs a laugh through his nose. “Yeah, alright.” He’s at the counter, his back to the room, but Castiel catches the motion of his arm. 

“Are you chopping something?”

Dean suppresses a grin and turns to give Castiel a raised eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Yes.”

“Well you’re just going to have to wait and see.”

“Did you buy actual food?” Castiel starts to sit up. He winces, but continues on until he’s in an upright position. He turns to look at the floor, and Dean can almost hear him calculating how much it might hurt to stand. Dean almost tells him not to, but this is the most interest Castiel has shown in moving about in… ever. Dean says nothing. 

Castiel frowns at the floor. He looks up to see Dean watching him and frowns harder. “Mind your own business.” He says. 

Dean shrugs and turns back to the counter, but he listens to the sounds from the rest of the room. The shuffling of Castiel moving in the bed, the sound of blankets being pushed aside. He doesn’t hear the sound of feet hitting the floor, but he does hear the sharp intake of breath when it happens. He can’t help himself, he turns to look. 

Castiel is standing, but he only manages it for a handful of moments before the pain overcomes him and he cries out, falling back to the bed. Instead of encouraging him, the action seems to have enraged him. He slams his hand into the bed, then into his leg. 

Dean drops what he’s doing to go and catch Castiel’s wrists. 

“You have to stop doing that.” He says. 

Castiel’s eyes are wild again. He snarls, “What?”

“Hurting yourself when you get upset.”

“Let me  _ go _ .” 

“Promise you won’t do it again.”

“It’s none of your fucking business.”

The position they’re in is awkward, Castiel’s legs are still on the floor and Dean is hovering over him, pinning his wrists to the bed. It can’t be comfortable for Castiel, it certainly isn’t comfortable for Dean. 

“It isn’t your fault.”

“What?”

“Whatever happened,” Dean says, “It wasn’t your fault.”

Castiel begins to struggle anew. “You don’t know  _ anything about it _ .”

“I know enough.”

“You don’t know  _ shit _ .” Castiel brings a knee up in a sharp move that must pain him, but pains Dean a lot more. The knee to his groin crumples Dean, and he falls to the floor with his hands over the area.

“You motherfucker.” He wheezes, “You’re such a fucking asshole. Why do I- stars- why do I let you stay here?”

“Because you’re weak.” Says Castiel.

Dean breathes in through his nose. It’s too much. He’s frustrated, he’s in pain, and it’s  _ all the time with this shit _ . When the pain has dulled, he stands. He looks down at Castiel.

“Okay,” He says, “So leave.”

Castiel’s eyes are closed. “You know I can’t.”

“I said  _ get out _ .”

At his tone, Castiel’s eyes snap open. “Dean-”

“You think i’m weak? I want you out of my fucking house.”

Castiel is panicking, Dean can see it in his eyes. He seems to have finally picked up on the fact that Dean isn’t playing around. When Dean leans down and slips one arm under the crook of Castiel’s legs and the other under his back, the panic becomes audible.

“Dean- Dean wait! Please-”

He’s not heavy. He’s been bedridden and he barely eats, he feels like a child in Dean’s arms. When Dean turns toward the door, Castiel scrabbles at his shirt. His fingers dig into Dean’s arm. 

“I’m sorry,” He gasps, “I didn’t mean it  _ i’m sorry _ .”

“I thought you wanted to die. I put you outside, you get your wish in probably a day or two. Isn’t that what you want?”

Castiel’s nails are close to breaking the skin on Dean’s arm. “I don’t know- I  _ don’t know _ .”

“Make up your mind.”

“No! No, I don’t want to die. Okay?”

He’s shaking again, hands trembling against Dean’s skin. The sudden guilt rushes up and takes Dean by the throat. He turns back to the bed and sets Castiel on it as carefully as he can. He sits down on the edge. He sighs. He presses the heels of his hands into the eyes. He says nothing, and neither does Castiel. He sits there until he feels a little more under control, then he stands and goes back to the counter. The excitement over the food is gone, and only the dull ache left by vacant anger remains. 

He cooks in silence. When he’s finally done, he turns back the room to find Castiel curled up facing the wall. He stands near the bed, but doesn’t sit down. 

“Hungry? There’s food.”

Castiel’s head turns just a bit, enough to see Dean out of his peripherals. He looks at the bowl Dean is offering. 

“You made me food?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Dean sighs. “Are we really doing this again? I don’t have the energy to argue with you right now-”

“No, I mean- I thought you were mad at me.”

“Yeah, I am. Doesn’t mean i’m gonna make you starve.”

Castiel just looks at him as if this is a foreign concept. 

“Look,” Dean says, “It’s spaghetti, you want it or not?”

Castiel turns surprisingly quickly, and sits up just as fast. Dean isn’t sure he’s ever seen Castiel move so fast. His eyes are bright, he reaches out for the bowl. When it’s in his hands, he closes his eyes and breathes in the smell in almost a reverent gesture. Dean gets it, he hasn’t had real food in a long time either. 

“There are vegetables in this.” Castiel says, examining the contents with awe.

“Yeah, and real noodles.”

“How much did this cost you?”

Too much. “Not that much.”

“Liar.” Says Castiel, and promptly tucks in. Dean settles himself at the small table in the corner. It has been so long since he’s had real food, longer since he’s had anything  _ good.  _ Eating spaghetti has never been such a religious experience. It’s a long time before the silence is broken. 

“Dean?” Says Castiel.

“Hmm.”

Silence, the sound of a fork scraping the side of the bowl. “I’m sorry i’m so difficult.”

Dean shakes his head. It’s not necessarily a disagreement. 

“I just-” Castiel continues, “I get so angry, at myself, at my body. It’s not healing right. It’s not  _ working  _ right.”

“You have to-”

“I know. I have to  _ give it time _ . But I've been stuck in this bed for weeks. I’ve been stuck in your apartment for weeks. I’m stiff and bored and I stink and  _ I can’t stand it _ . I shouldn’t take it out on you. But, I do.”

Dean looks at him. “You’re bored?”

“Yeah.”

This, he understands. He was similar as a child, wreaking havoc when left to his own devices for too long. He can understand how being trapped in the same place for weeks might be maddening. He thinks. 

“I might have an idea.” He says. He doesn’t explain himself, and Castiel doesn’t ask. They finish their food in silence. 

 

“Did you steal that?” Castiel eyes the machine with barely concealed distaste.

“Yep.”

“Did you steal it from someone who  _ was using it _ ?”

“Trust me, the dude doesn’t need it anymore.” At Castiel’s blank look, he elaborates. “He died a few days ago, they were setting all his stuff out to sell. I just swiped it.”

Castiel’s eyes widen. They rove over the contraption. “I’ve never used one before.”

“I mean, should be easy enough to figure out, right?”

Castiel frowns, but it’s not his usual frown. It’s more a look of concentration. “Will you help me?”

“What do you need?”

“Just hold it still. I think I can stand for long enough to get into it.”

Dean takes the handles of the wheelchair to hold it while Castiel readies himself. He lurches unsteadily to his feet and grabs the arm rests of the chair to twist himself around before he can collapse. And there he is, in a wheelchair. 

He runs his hands over the wheels, the arms. He flips down two footrests and maneuvers his bare feet into them. 

“What do you think?” Dean asks.

Castiel rolls himself forward experimentally, then back. “I think- I think I can move.”

“Yeah?”

A short bark of laughter leaves Castiel’s mouth, surprising the both of them. 

“Hey, now I can clean the sheets.” Dean realizes.

“You should, they smell terrible.”

“I think you’re smelling yourself, pal.”

Castiel promptly tries to run over Dean’s feet. 

“Alright, chill.” Says Dean. 

The knock at the door surprises them both into stillness, the ringing of the wood is too loud in this small apartment. Castiel looks at Dean, who looks back at him. 

“Were you expecting someone?” Castiel whispers.

Dean shakes his head. Castiel’s face draws into a wary expression. He wheels himself as far back as he can go, through the bathroom door, the only place to hide. 

The knock comes again. 

Dean can’t say exactly why his stomach lurches uncomfortably, why his hands are suddenly sweaty, why his feet don’t want to cooperate on the way to the door. He knows only that he never has visitors, and Castiel is hiding in the bathroom. The doorknob feels heavy in his hand. Maybe he shouldn’t answer it. Maybe he should crawl under the bed and hope that whoever it is goes away. But no, he’s not a child. He takes a breath and turns the knob. He swings the door open. 

“Hey, Dean!”

“Jumping Jupiter fuck, Sam. You fucking scared me!” Dean swipes at his brother, who dodges his hand easily. 

“Sorry.” Sam shrugs, about as not-sorry as he can possibly be. 

“You can come out, Cas. It’s just my brother.”

Castiel wheels himself out of the bathroom just as Sam steps inside, ducking under the doorframe to avoid hitting his head. 

Sam smiles wide. “Someone’s doing better. Last time I was here I wasn’t sure if you were going to pull through.”

Castiel looks at Dean, who says, “Sam took a look at you when you first got here. He brought the salve, remember?”

“Ah,” Says Castiel, “Thank you.”

“No sweat.” Says Sam, “Thought i’d check back in, see how things were going. Dean hasn’t called me,” He gives Dean a pointed look, “so I assumed you were still alive.”

“Yeah, speaking of calls, I don’t remember inviting you over.”

“Well you were never going to so I invited myself over.”

“I’m not sure you know how invitations work.”

Sam gives him the finger and turns back to Castiel. “Alright, you mind if I check you out?”

Castiel frowns. His face says that he does, in fact, mind, but he nods his head. 

Sam is quick, he’s professional, and he’s kind. He goes over Castiel’s wounds with care. It’s times like these when Dean feels that sour mixture of pride and guilt pool in his stomach. He’s so proud of Sam, and he’s sorry he can’t be there to watch him grow. He misses his brother more than he likes to admit, it’s an ache that sits in his chest all the time, no matter what he’s doing. 

Dean steps outside. He doesn’t want to feel so much, especially not in front of people. 

The stench of the canal is rancid today, where usually it’s just fetid. Dean walks all the way to the edge of the crumbling stonework and looks down. Canal worms wriggle and writhe beneath the sludge. Dean starts to take a deep breath and then stops, remembering where he is. He closes his eyes instead, lets himself drift away. He’s above himself, above the canal, above the city, above this crappy planet. He’s floating away, out into the inky black sky. The stars are so beautiful.

“Dean,” Sam calls from the door to his apartment. 

Dean doesn’t open his eyes. “Yeah?”

“I’m finished, you can quit being a weirdo and come back inside now.”

Dean huffs. 

Castiel looks uncomfortable when Dean comes back in, but not angry. Sam is smiling. 

“It looks like you’re healing fairly well.” He says, “Especially considering you haven't actually been to a hospital.”

“My hands?” Says Castiel.

Sam’s smile slips. He down at the table, chair creaking at his weight. “They’re healing.” he says, “But you’re not going to regain full use of them. If you had gone to a hospital right away, maybe, but not now.”

Castiel closes his eyes. Dean marvels at the fact that he’s trying to contain his emotions in front of Sam. He never tries to contain them in front of Dean. 

“I would like to be alone.” He says. 

All three of them look around the tiny apartment. There is no place to be alone. 

“I am going to go into the bathroom and close the door.” He says.

“Take all the time you need.” Says Sam.

Dean, however, is apprehensive as the bathroom door clicks shut behind Castiel. There are too many ways he might hurt himself out of anger in there. Sam doesn’t know about his self destructive tendencies. 

Then, it’s just the two of them. 

“I’m surprised he’s still here, to be honest.” Says Sam.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I thought you’d have found someone else to take him of your hands. But,” He shrugs, “you  _ did  _ always have that mom thing.”  
  
“That  _ what _ ?”

“You like to take care of people. It’s kinda your thing.”

Dean scoffs. “No I don’t.”

“You kinda do.”

“Yeah, and you would know better than me, would you?”

Sam shrugs again. “It’s not like you raised me or anything, right?”

“That’s not the same.”

“I’m not saying it as a bad thing.” Sam explains, “It’s a good trait, wanting to care for people.”

“I do  _ not _ .” Dean insists, even as he realizes that it’s true. He does like to take care of people, it makes him feel like he has a purpose. 

“Yeah, okay.” Says Sam. He always knew when to let things drop, “Hey, you guys want food?”

"Yeah, i'm sure Cas'll be hungry when he calms down."

 

Dean has not had  _ good  _ food in a long time, too long. Besides the spaghetti, he limits himself to nutri-mix mostly. It’s cheap, it’s filling, and it has the vitamins you need. He has forgotten how it feels to really, really eat. To enjoy the taste of a thing, to savor it. He shovels more tangy meat into his mouth. 

The restaurant is loud and crowded to the extreme. Sam, Dean, and Castiel are sharing a bench and table with about fourteen other people, all of whom seem to be shouting. They’re elbow to elbow, and no one here smells good. Dean loves it.

Castiel had protested. He hadn’t wanted to leave the house, which is exactly what he’d said he wanted earlier. After much prodding he’d relented, but only on the condition that he be allowed to wear a breath mask; a bit of fabric laced with nanos to keep out germs. He has it pushed up now, eating as if he’s been starving for the last month. 

“You ever had Calaran mead before?” Dean shouts over the din.

Castiel shakes his head, unable to answer verbally with his mouth stuffed. 

Dean laughs. “Have some of this.” He pushes a mug toward Castiel, who takes it eagerly. It’s a sweet mead, with more alcohol in it than you’d think. Everything here is good. Sam nudges Dean from his other side to point out something across the room. 

 

Dean and Castiel stumble into Dean’s apartment. Well, Dean stumbles. Castiel rolls, but if he could be stumbling, he would be. They’ve left Sam back at the transport station, and Dean is sad to see him go. It was nice to get to spend some time with his brother again, to not feel guilty and ashamed. He wonders it it’s Sam that’s changed, or himself. Whoever has changed, that heavy weight is gone from between them. 

“I want a bath.” Castiel says, swaying to one side in the wheelchair. His eyes are half closed, his words just a little bit haphazard.

“What?” Dean is not exactly sober either. 

“A bath. I want a bath. And clean sheets.”

Dean snorts, “You want me to wash ‘em in the canal or what?”

Castiel turns in his seat to make an uncharacteristic face at Dean. If he didn’t know better, Dean would think it was a pout. 

“Can we just take them off tonight and wash them in the morning?”

“ _ You  _ can wash them in the morning, if you want to so badly. There’s a laundromat around the corner.”

“Yes, fine.” Castiel huffs, “I just want to be clean.”

“You can’t wait until tomorrow?”

“No.” Says Castiel, and starts wheeling himself unceremoniously toward the bathroom. 

Dean strips the sheets from the bed, the cases from the pillows, and tosses them into a pile at the foot of the bed. He wrinkles his nose, willing to admit that Castiel is right, it’s pretty rank. He takes the blanket off too and shakes it to air it out. 

It’s about that time that a voice from the bathroom calls out, “Dean, can you help me?”

“What?”

“Can you help me?”

“With what?”

“Can you just come in here?”

Castiel is having issues. He has managed to disrobe about halfway. His shirt is off and the loose sweatpants Dean let him borrow are down to his knees, but with the wheelchair he can’t seem to get them the rest of the way. He gestures to his legs. 

“What do you want me to do?” Says Dean.

“Can you help me get my pants off?”

Dean snorts, “Nobody’s asked me that in a while.”

“Don’t be crass.” Castiel says, kicking his feet impatiently. 

Dean sticks out his tongue.

“Oh  _ really _ .”

“Do you want my help or not?”

“No.”

“Okay,” Says Dean, moving to stand. 

“Wait, come back. Of course I want your help.”

“Was that so difficult to say?” Dean chides.

Castiel scowls. “Yes.”

“Well, good job then.”

“I can’t get the boxers either.”

Once he’s thoroughly stripped, Dean helps Castiel down into the tub, which has been running hot water this whole time. Castiel sighs at the heat, leans his head back against the wall. 

“You can leave now.”

“And then you’ll drown.”

“Why would I drown?”

“Because you’re drunk, taking a bath. Feels like a bad combination.”

“I am  _ not  _ drunk.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m not.”

Dean laughs. “Yeah, okay.”

He doesn’t leave. He sits down in Castiel’s abandoned chair and lets his head loll backward. The room sways gently. He wants to  _ do  _ something; to sing, to run, to swim. He always feels like doing things when he’s drunk, and  _ that’s  _ a combination that gets him into trouble. 

And here’s another: his mind wanders. It doesn’t wander far, only to the bath, but that’s far enough to get him into some trouble. 

He keeps his eyes on the ceiling, but he can hear the slosh of the bath water, smell the spicy soap. It’s not as though he didn’t  _ just  _ see Castiel naked not moments ago, but somehow it’s different now that he’s wet. 

An unhappy huff comes from the bath. 

“What?” Says Dean, eyes still on the ceiling.

“I’m fat.” Says Castiel.

“What the fuck?” Dean sits up straight. Castiel is looking down at himself, pinching the bottom of his stomach in between two fingers.

“I’ve never had this-  _ this _ before.”

“What, are you kidding me?” Dean shakes his head, “Everybody has that.”

“I didn’t.”

“That’s what happens when you’re a regular person. I have it,” He lifts up his own shirt and pats his soft stomach, much softer than Castiel’s, “Do you think i’m fat?”

“Well, no.” Castiel reaches out, fingers trailing water on their quest to Dean’s stomach. He touches it reverently, and Dean suppresses a shiver as fingers roam over his belly. They dip into his belly button, continue up toward his chest until they’re hampered by the shirt. 

Castiel gives it a tug. “You should take that off.” He says. 

“Why?”

“Because I want you too.”

Dean laughs, yanks his shirt back down over his belly. “Tough shit.” He says. It’s too close. It’s too close to something else that he can’t control, feelings that he’s not ready to feel. It’s too much. 

“Do you want to take a bath?” Castiel asks.

“No.” 

“But you smell.”

“Yeah, well, so do you.”

“That’s why I’m taking a bath, Dean.”

“Whatever.” He looks away, but he can feel Castiel’s eyes on him. 

He gets a few minutes of peace before the silence is broken again. “Will you get my back?”

He can do this, Dean decides. He can get Castiel’s back. It’s an innocent thing, and he can do it. It doesn’t matter that Castiel is wet and drunk and swaying into Dean’s personal space. It doesn’t matter that he’s humming softly, that there are water droplets hanging on his eye lashes. 

Dean concentrates on his back. The rag in his hand feels a little bit holy, pressed against skin. He’s as gentle as he can be, and Castiel presses back. 

It’s only then that Dean notices the tattoo on his arm. He has them all over, but they’ve been so camouflaged by bruises and grime that Dean hasn’t taken any notice of them. Now, arm clean, Dean can see this one very clearly. 

He grabs Castiel’s arm to get a better look, ignoring the sounds of upset from Castiel. Two wings, and one long dagger plunged through them. 

“Holy shit.” Says Dean.

“Um,” Says Castiel.

“You’re in a gang. You’re in the fucking Fallen?”

Castiel is very quiet. He says nothing for several moments, content to let Dean examine his arm. Finally he says, “I was.”

“And?” It comes out accusing and Dean doesn’t try to stop it. 

“Not anymore.”

“What happened?”

Castiel shakes his head, starts to pull his hand away. Dean tightens his grip. “Cas, what happened?”

Castiel closes his eyes, and Dean doesn't expect to see tears sneaking their way out the corners. His adam’s apple bobs. When he speaks it’s close to a whisper. “He killed my little sister.”

Dean grips loosens. His heart stutters. “Who did?”

“Adler.”

Adler. The Fallen. They’re ghost stories. They’re what you use to frighten children into behaving. They’re barely real. The most ruthless gang on this planet, they operate through all social strata. And here is one, in his house. Naked. 

“He killed your sister. You retaliated? And…” and then Castiel was a bloody smear in an alleyway. Broken bones. Smashed fingers. Left for dead. That’s the kind of people the Fallen are.

Castiel turns and leans his head back against the wall. “I don’t want to talk about this.” He says. 

“Okay.” Says Dean. 

They don’t talk about it. Dean cleans the rest of Castiel’s back, and then helps him into clean clothes. Castiel doesn’t harp at all, which tells Dean what kind of mood he’s in. It gets stranger still when they go to bed. Castiel turns toward him and sets his hand on Dean’s hip. This has never happened before. 

“Uh,” Says Dean. 

“Do you think you would find me attractive,” Castiel says, “if I were… whole.”

“Cas, you’re still a whole person.”

“Well?”

“I- I don’t think that’s-”

Castiel hand moves down, down to the front of Dean’s pajama pants to palm his soft dick. Dean’s hand whips out to grab Castiel’s wrist. 

“Cas-”

“Let me?” Castiel says, fingers playing along the outline of Dean’s dick. 

“It’s not a good idea.” Says Dean. He’s breathless. He feels like he’s been running. He wants it, he wants it so badly. His body is already responding, hardening. But this isn’t something he can have. Not now. 

“I’ll be gentle.” Castiel whispers, “I’ll be sweet.”

Dean closes his eyes and takes a breath. All he gets is the smell of spicy soap on Castiel’s skin. 

“I can’t.” He says, “Not this time.”

Castiel’s hand retreats. He looks disappointed. He looks… lonesome. 

“Hey,” Says Dean. He raises up one arm invitation. Castiel considers it for a while, gives a small smile, and moves to tuck himself into Dean’s arms. 


	5. Metanoia

Metanoia

_ Noun _

A transformative change of heart

 

\--

 

In sleep, Castiel clings to Dean. He craves contact, the warmth. Something about it is something he’s missing. 

In wakefulness, he’s distant. He grouches. He doesn’t want help. Yet he still craves touch, which Dean discovers completely by accident. 

It is the day after what Dean has begun to think of as The Incident. Castiel has been complaining of a headache for the last half hour, and Dean is none too relaxed himself. His stomach is upset from last night, and he feels guilty, too. Guilty for what, he can’t quite figure out. Guilty for turning Castiel away? Guilty for wanting it? It all churns unhappily in his head and stomach. 

They’re at the table, and Castiel is frowning hard at the nutri-mix on his spoon. He takes a bite and grimaces.

“You okay?” Dean asks.

“This headache is killing me.” He rubs roughly at his temples.

Dean does not consciously decide to reach out, he only knows that from one moment to the next, he has done it. He reaches out and cups the back of Castiel’s neck. Castiel freezes in surprise. Dean begins to kneed. With the heel of his hand on one side and his fingers on the other, he gently rubs Castiel’s neck. 

Castiel melts. His eyes flutter closed and he slumps forward to lean on his elbows. He says, “ _ Oh. _ ”

“How’s that?”

“That’s- good.”

“Helping?”

“Yes.” His voice comes softly, as a gasp. He reaches up to grasp Dean’s forearm. 

Dean keeps up the motion until his hand begins to cramp. When he lets go, Castiel’s face tries to follow. He ends up cupping Castiel’s cheek in his hand. 

He runs his thumb over the scruffy beard that has grown over the last few weeks. 

“I should shave it.” Says Castiel, “I’ve let it go too long.”

“You can use my razor if you want.”

Castiel nods, but he doesn’t try to move his face away from Dean’s hand. He seems perfectly content to just stay right there. 

Eventually Dean does move his hand away, and Castiel blinks as if coming out of a trance. He sits up straight and frowns into his nutri-mix. Dean studies his own. There is so much hanging in the air between them. Secrets and feelings that Dean wishes hadn’t been discovered at all. Things were simple. Well, simple-ish. And now suddenly everything is very complicated. He feels like everything he says will be fraught with underlying meaning. What if he accidentally tells Castiel how he feels? What if he  _ doesn’t _ ?

Dean is wo wrapped up in his own thoughts that he jumps when Castiel clears his throat. 

“So,” Says Castiel.

Dean waits. His heart pounds. It’s so loud he fears that Castiel himself can hear it. His hands have begun to tremble and he sits back in his chair and hides them in his lap. He shouldn’t be nervous. Why is he so nervous? Castiel has been living here for a month. They sleep in the same bed. They’ve been eating breakfast together this whole time. Why should he assume Castiel is going to say anything about last night?

“About last night.”

Dean’s heart seizes. He manages one strangled syllable that has Castiel looking at him askance. 

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Yep.” Says Dean. 

Castiel takes a long breath. He clasps his hands in front of his bowl on the table, eyes trained on them. 

“I wanted to… apologize. I haven't had alcohol in some time, and I think I made you feel uncomfortable. I…” He purses his lips and takes a moment to think, “I shouldn’t have made advances when we had been drinking, and I should have stopped after the first time you said no. I’m sorry.”

Finally, he looks at Dean. He waits. 

Dean swallows. He’s not sure what to say, which way to go. There are too many options, too many ways that this could go so very wrong. And that’s not even counting the fact that Castiel is a  _ gang member _ , or a former one at least. The Fallen are no joke, they’re a group of notoriously terrible people. How does Castiel fit into that?

“I, uh,” Says Dean, “It’s okay.” He shakes his head when Castiel opens his mouth, “Really. It’s not like I didn’t-” He scrubs a hand over his face, “It’s complicated. But i’m not upset.”

Castiel looks at him. He keeps looking at him. Finally, he says, “If you’re not upset, I have some questions.”

“Of course you do.”

“Are you attracted to me, or aren’t you?”

Dean closes one eye and squints at the ceiling. “I’m not… unattracted.”

Castiel scowls. “Why must you make everything difficult?”

Dean shrugs. 

“Well, I am attracted to you. Does that make you uncomfortable?”

“No.” Dean mumbles, wishing there were something to do with his hands. 

Castiel’s jaw works, like he’s trying to figure something out. “Are you generally attracted to men?”

“I mean, I guess? Doesn’t really matter much to me.”

“So, last night, why didn’t you want to?”

“Cas, it’s complicated, okay?”

“You can tell me about it.”

“Well I don’t want to, so how about that?”

“Dean-”

“Cas, I don’t want to talk about it. I’m not making you talk about all your stuff. And I feel like I have more grounds to ask for answers from you, honestly, so chill out.”

Castiel sits back with a frustrated huff, but he doesn’t argue. He scowls out the window over the table, into the driving rain. 

After some time, he asks, “Your brother, he doesn’t work at the hospital here in the Below, does he?”

“No.”

“And not one in Olympas?” 

“No. Why all the questions?”

“Just trying to piece together the picture.” Castiel stirs his nutri-mix thoughtfully, “Where does he work, then?”

Dean squints. He’s not sure where Castiel is going with this. Given the most recent mood at the table, he’s not sure it’s safe to give away too many details. 

“Off-world.” 

“Quite a commute.”

“Not really,” A beat, and Dean decides that he trusts Castiel, whatever that really means, “He lives off world too. Him and my uncle live on Turos.” 

“Is that the moon full of Ichariam ore?”

“No, it’s one of the agricultural ones. Peaceful. Quiet.”

“And why don’t you live there?”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I just can’t.”

“Has anyone ever told you that getting any kind of information from you is like pulling teeth?”

“Only if they’re trying to get me to talk about something that’s none of their business.”

Castiel huffs again. He crosses his arms over his chest. He frowns at the window.

“Come on, don’t do that.”

Castiel sniffs. He doesn’t look at Dean.

“Quit the pouting, Cas. You’re not twelve.”

“Well that’s just none of your business, is it?”

“Stars. You know what, i’m going out.”

Castiel doesn’t say anything, just scowls in typical fashion. Dean can feel eyes on his back as he pulls on his jacket and goggles. He shuts the door a little too hard behind him. 

 

Dean has never been to the archives before. They’re public, but no one comes here. It’s one squat building up on the east side of midtown, built of stone the color street cart coffee. He can remember it being smooth once, and beautiful, but the years have worn away the brightness of it. Inside, the lights are dim. There are shelves upon shelves of binders full of old papers, brown and fragile with age. The carpet puffs dust under his footsteps. He sneezes into the crook of his arm. 

Finally, there are the feed archives. Each on a desk, three monitors half the size of a person. The one on the far right is occupied by a single person with their hood pulled up. Dean takes the far left. 

It’s not hard to find Castiel in the feeds. The Fallen show up again and again, in criminal capacity as well as philanthropists. Yes, they helped organize this homeless shelter; yes, they did brutally murder a group of shopkeepers. And there is Castiel, in the back of this picture and that. If he goes far enough back, Dean can find Castiel as a teenager, fresh faced and unbruised. He’s beautiful, and it strikes Dean in the chest like a fist. 

A mugshot catches Dean’s attention, from just a few years prior. Castiel, frowning that familiar frown. The caption says he set several homes on fire. People died.

Dean takes a deep breath and leans back in his chair. What has he gotten himself into? Is it terrible that he wonders if Castiel had a good reason? The shock of it has left him cold, his stomach churns. How can he possibly reconcile this cold-faced murderer with the man he’s been sharing a bed with for the past month? It’s not possible. 

Dean rubs his hands over his face and tries to keep his emotions at bay. What good are they?

He feels a presence at his back before a voice just behind him says, “Interesting reading material.”

Dean’s head snaps to the side. The man who had been sitting at the far left desk is now at the back of Dean’s chair. He is tall and dark haired, an unfriendly scowl marring his face. 

“Uh,” Says Dean, “just curious, I guess.” 

“It’s dangerous to get too interested in some things.” Says the man. 

Dean can feel the threat in the words; it stings against his skin. He doesn’t know who this man is, but he’s obviously someone who feels comfortable threatening strangers. From his sitting position, Dean can’t see much of the man’s face. He wonders if he might see it mirrored back at him from the feeds. 

He forces a chuckle quickly exits out of his search. He stands and stretches. “Just wasting some time.”

He can feel the man’s eyes on his back as he leaves. Maybe he’s imagining it, but he thinks he can still feel them on the street. An uneasy feeling crawls up his spine, the idea that he’s made some mistake, but he’s not sure what. He goes in Benny’s instead of heading home, he needs time to think anyway. The big man is sorting something behind the counter. 

“Hey,” Says Benny, “There he is.”

“There I am.” Says Dean, sitting heavily on a stool.

Benny squints at him. “You look nervous. Got a tail?”

“I don’t know.” Dean admits, “I feel like I do, but maybe i’m just paranoid. It’s been a weird day.”

“I’ll keep an eye out.” Says Benny. His eyes slide past Dean out to the street, they look one way, then the other.

“Thanks.” Dean can feel a little of the weight leave his shoulders. It’s good to have someone watching his back, “Can I ask you a question?”

“You know the answer to that.”

“Okay, so, say you’ve been spending a lot of time with someone. And you like them a lot. And then you found out they did something really terrible in their past, maybe  _ lots  _ of really terrible things. What- how are you supposed to feel? Can people change? I just don’t know.”

Benny looks at him. He scratches his chin. He looks at his some more. He takes a breath. “Alright,” He says, “I have a few things to say about it. You want my opinion?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, first off, you’re no angel yourself, are ya? Me and you have both done all sorts of things that other people would probably call terrible. Why? Cause we had to to stay alive, to keep the people we care about alive.”

The words put a tremor in Dean’s hands and a mantra in his head.  _ Don’t think about dad, don’t think about dad, don’t think about dad _ .

“Okay,” He says, “but we never killed anybody.” Not on purpose, anyway.

Benny taps a finger on the counter. “Death. Now she’s a fickle lady, ain't she? Coming for us all in the end.”

“You’re not seriously saying that murder is okay because we’re all going to die anyway, are you?”

“Course not. It’s not something to take light. But I know people can change. We all do it, all the time. I hear all kinda talks about ‘unchanging natures’ and it’s all  _ shaff _ , i’ll tell you that. You’re not the same person you were a year ago, and neither am I. That’s life.”

“Does that… make it okay?”

Benny shrugs. “I don’t have all the answers, Dean.”

“Yeah, I know.” Dean sighs. 

 

Castiel is still sitting at the kitchen table when Dean gets home. He has a book open in front of him. He doesn’t look up when Dean comes in. 

Stars, and here’s a strange enough situation that Dean doesn’t know how to deal with it. He likes Castiel. Sure, he’s an infuriating bastard with a stubborn streak a mile wide, but then maybe Dean is too. But murder? Arson? What kind of person does that make Castiel? What kind of person would Dean be if he ignored it?

He sits down heavily across the table from the source of his frustrations. He leans back in his chair. He leans forward. Back again. 

Castiel’s eyes rise from the page of his book. “Are you still angry with me?”

Dean huffs, shakes his head. It’s a whole other animal now and he doesn’t know how to say it nicely.

“Did you really kill people?” 

Castiel goes very still. Slowly, he folds a corner of the page he’s on and closes the book. He looks at Dean. “Are you going to throw me out for real this time?”

“I don’t know. No? I just- I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel.”

“Were you reading feeds?”

“Yeah. Archived.”

Castiel takes in a breath and sits back in his chair. His typical frown is gone, replaced with something sadder, more contemplative. 

“I did a lot of bad things.” He begins, “And I wish I could say I had some good reason for it, but I didn’t. I was a kid. I wanted…” He rubs a hand over his mouth, “I wanted to belong somewhere. I would have done anything for approval. And then, well, I grew up in it.”

“Did you feel guilty?”

“Yeah. But it seemed a small price to pay for belonging. And then- Anna joined.”

“Your sister.”

A nod. “Our mother passed and she didn’t have anywhere to go. She thought she’d be safe there, with me. But she was too sweet, too pretty, and Adler-” He breaks off, he has begun to shake. He closes his eyes and puts his head down on the table, hands atop his head. 

Dean is kneeling by his side in moments, a hand on his bowed back. “Hey, it’s over. It’s over.”

“I should have kept her safe. I didn’t know. I was so fucking stupid.”

“Cas it’s not your fault.” Dean pulls Castiel toward him by the chair, swinging the whole man around. He’s shaking like a leaf. Dean’s hands are on his face, “It’s not your fault.”

Castiel’s hands come to Dean’s wrists and stay there. “I should have known better.”

“You didn’t.” Dean wipes tears gently away from Castiel’s cheeks with the pad of his thumbs. 

“I should have.”

“Cas, you didn’t. You can’t change that.”

Castiel says nothing, but turns his head into Dean’s palm like a cat searching for warmth. 

There is something about it, about all of it, that has Dean’s tongue loose. His heart pounding. Pulse racing. 

“I got my dad killed.” He says.

Castiel’s eyes snap up to him. 

Dean continues. “We were on a job and I- I got greedy. We were out of time, but I wanted just a few more things. I wasted too much time, got us caught. Dad got shot. That’s why I can’t go home.”

Castiel looks at him. He looks for a long time. “Do they know?”

“No. I don’t think so. But I wouldn’t lie to them.”

Castiel nods once, slowly. 

“You know the worst part though? I don’t miss him.” Dean huffs a weak imitation of a laugh, “He was a real asshole. Beat the shit out of me all the time, told me I was trash. And I got him killed. And I still don’t know how i’m supposed to feel about it. I’m all… mixed up.”

Cas gives a slow shake of his head. He closes his eyes. He whispers, “What a pair.”

“You think there are any good people in the ‘verse?”

“You’re good.”

“Right.”

Castiel’s eyes open. He looks at Dean. His expression is soft, as is his voice. “You are. No one has ever been as kind to me as you are.”

“That’s sad, Cas. I’m not that nice to you.”

“I didn’t say  _ nice _ , I said  _ kind _ .”

“Is there a difference?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

They sit in this position for a good while. Dean’s hands are still on Castiel’s face, and he can’t bring himself to move them away. The softness of Castiel’s expression, his eyes, his mouth, does much to dispel his worries about having a gang member in his house. He doesn’t believe this man would ever hurt him, not really. 

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you let me kiss you?”

He wants to say yes, he does. Every cell in his body is yearning for it. But everything is in the way. He lets his hands drop from Castiel’s face.

“I don’t think-”

“Just a kiss.” Says Castiel, “Nothing more, if that’s what bothers you.”

There is barely a moment to think, and Dean doesn’t even take that. The “Okay,” Is out of his mouth and crossing the distance between them before he can stop it. 

Castiel leans in. Dean’s forgets to breathe. 

The touch of lips on his own would be enough to wake him from a dead sleep. These lips, especially. Castiel’s lips. Castiel kisses so soft, so slow. It’s barely a question against Dean’s mouth, and it’s a question he appreciates. Castiel is not taking, he is not searching, or claiming. He is asking. If it were any other way, it wouldn’t work. Dean would panic. He knows, it happens time and time again. But Dean doesn’t panic. He can feel, in fact, a warmth spreading through him. He kisses Castiel back. 

There is a hitch in someone’s breath, and Castiel’s hand comes up to Dean’s neck. Just below his jaw, fingers gentle on Dean’s skin. Dean presses closer, closer. The warmth of Castiel, sugar and fire, is too difficult to resist. He doesn’t want to resist anymore. Castiel’s shirt is bunched in his hand. 

When Dean finally pulls back, he finds himself shaking. It’s not out of fear, but something else. Some feeling he hasn’t been able to categorize just yet. He’s buzzing with something,  _ something _ . 

Castiel’s thumb is at his mouth, wiping saliva from his lips. He’s smiling, just a little. It’s a tentative thing, ready to flee at a moment’s notice.

“I only wanted one kiss, you know.” He says. 

“I know.” Says Dean, “Sorry.”

“No complaints here.” Says Castiel. He’s breathless. Red mouthed, cheeks flushed. His eyes are on Dean’s. “I could do it some more.”

They shouldn’t. “You want to?”

“If you’re up for it.”

He shouldn’t. He  _ shouldn’t _ . He says, “Yes. Please.”


	6. Cingulomania

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- some sexual stuff in the beginning of this chapter

Cingulomania

_ noun _

_ a strong desire to hold a person in your arms _

 

-

 

Castiel’s fingers are at Dean’s throat, tracing the line of it down to the slope of his shoulder. Dean tries to breathe, and finds himself gasping, because Castiel’s mouth is there on his neck. Dean has been struck by lightning, he’s sure of it. Why else would his entire body be alite and tingling? Why else would he feel like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin?

Castiel mouths at a place under Dean’s jaw, and Dean’s hands clench instinctively, crumpling handfuls of Castiel’s shirt. How long has he had handfuls of that? How long has he be been practically trying to climb into Castiel’s lap? He’s not going to, of course, but the temptation is high. 

Castiel’s hand, tracing up his side. Under his shirt. His touch is so light that Dean might be dreaming it if it weren't for the tongue lapping at that spot behind his ear. He can’t stop himself from shivering. 

“Are you alright?” Castiel asks, his breath ghosting over the shell of Dean’s ear.

“Yes.”

“Is this still okay?”

Dean nods. He can’t speak. He’s having trouble thinking, forming words. It’s an out of body experience, almost. He doesn’t quite feel like he’s in control of his body. 

He wants to kiss the pale column of Castiel’s neck, so he does. Castiel shivers beneath him, and it sends a thrill up Dean’s spine. Castiel’s hand reaching down to squeeze Dean’s ass. It startles a laugh out of him.

“What?” Says Castiel, “It’s a very nice derriere.” 

“Oh, yeah? You’ve been staring at my ass?”

“Well it’s right there in my eyeline all the time.” His other hand snakes down to grab a handful of the other cheek. 

“Sure. You just can’t keep your eyes to yourself, that’s the problem.”

“Well, you’re-” Castiel cuts himself off and looks away, a blush crawling up his cheeks. 

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on. You can tell me.” He leans forward and kisses Castiel softly on the mouth. Again, with the press of a tongue. 

“You’re very handsome.” Castiel admits, “Very… lovely.”

This gives Dean pause. He’s been called a lot of things. He’s never been called  _ lovely _ . 

“You’re not too bad yourself.” He says.

“Stop that. I’m a mess.”

“You’re still very handsome.”

Castiel looks at him, appraising. “You think so?”

“Yeah,” Says Dean. The sincerity of it all makes him very nervous, but he’s not ready to stop yet. 

“Well,” a teasing smile plays on Castiel’s lips, “why don’t you do something about it?”

Dean leans in and kisses Castiel again. Stars, it’s good. Like finally finding water after wandering dehydrated through the desert. 

His hand is wandering down, down Castiel’s side. To the front of his pants, tented with excitement. The press of his hand against Castiel’s erection is light, but Castiel gasps into the mouth. A small, startled breath. 

Dean kneads it, and Castiel’s hands come up to grasp at his forearms. 

“Alright?” Says Dean.

“Yes,” Says Castiel, “I just haven't- it’s been a while since i’ve done this.”

“That’s okay.”

Castiel sighs. His eyes close. He looks soft, sticky sweet. Red lips, wet and calling out to be kissed. Dean obliges. They fit together so perfect, so perfect. The curve of Castiel’s mouth and the arch of Dean’s. Castiel’s hand and Dean’s hip. Dean’s hand and Castiel’s erection. It’s a perfect jumble of pieces. 

Castiel’s hand comes to cup Dean’s erection, and Dean only has a moment to register the sick feeling in his stomach before it begins to flag. 

“Oh,” Says Castiel. He sits back. He looks surprised. He looks a little upset. 

“Fuck.” Says Dean, “I’m sorry.”

“No, no I- i’m sorry. I don’t- what did I-”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” Dean says quickly, “I just-” He rubs a hand over his face. He settles back down on his haunches in front of Castiel. “Um. You know how I said I was all mixed up?”

A nod.

“That kinda leaks over into sex too. I-” He’s not quite sure how to say it, but it feels like they’re past the point of  _ not  _ saying things. “When dad died, the only place I had to go was that brothel. But I was still grieving. And, I don’t know, I guess all my feelings of guilt and grief are all tied up with sex now. Or something. I’m not a scientist.”

Castiel looks at him. He says, “Okay. How does it affect you, exactly?”

Dean shrugs. “Sometimes a lot, sometimes not at all. But mostly a lot. I just- sex just brings up all that guilt I guess. And, you know,” He looks downward at the front of his pants, pointedly not tented.

“But kissing is okay?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

Castiel leans forward and kisses him softly again. He cups Dean’s face in both of his hands. He looks at Dean like he’s searching for something. Finally, he asks, “Will you lay with me?”

“Uh, yeah. I guess.”

It’s something of a strange transition, from the table to the bed. Especially since Dean doesn’t really know what he’s doing. He’s not really sure what Castiel wants. He lays himself down on his side of the bed while Castiel hoists himself from the wheelchair to the bed. He lays down next to Dean. He turns onto his side, facing Dean. He says, “Come here.”

Dean does nothing for a long moment while he weighs the situation. What does Castiel want from him, really? He’s not up for sex, so what is this?

He turns onto his side and scoots the small distance between himself and Castiel, only to have Castiel throw an arm over his side. He pulls Dean closer, until they’re touching at every point. Their foreheads are pressed together, noses touching. Chest and bellies, hips and legs, all against each other. Castiel is warm, but when he lifts his head to kiss Dean’s forehead, Dean shivers. 

“What are you doing?” Dean asks.

“Cuddling.” Castiel says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Why?”

“I thought you might benefit from it.” Says Castiel. He blinks, “And, I wanted to hold you.”

“Why would you want to do that?”

“Because I like you.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Dean sputters. He doesn’t know what he’s going to say, the words don’t fit quite right into his mouth. “ _ Because _ .”

“A very convincing argument.”

“Because i’m a mess, Cas.”

“So am I.” Says Castiel, “I’m a mess. I’m not healing right. I have nightmares that keep you up. I’m not easy to live with, to get along with. But you haven't kicked me out.”

“‘Course I haven't kicked you out.”

“Because you’re a good person.”

“No, i’m not.”

“Yes you are.” Castiel kisses Dean on the forehead again, “You’re very kind.”

“Shut up.”

“I will not.”

Dean sighs. He lets his eyes drift shit. Something inside him throbs painfully. His heart, perhaps. This is not what he’s used to. 

“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

“I know.”

“I- fuck. I didn’t mean that.”

“No, I am.”

“I mean, maybe,” Says Dean, “but you’re- I like you.”

Castiel smiles at him. Small, secret. He says, “Good.”

 

There is a thrashing. A struggling. A shout. Dean bolts upright, but finds only Castiel there in the throws of a nightmare. 

“Hey, it’s just a dream.” Says Dean. He reaches out to put a hand on Castiel’s arm, but Castiel is flailing too wildly. 

“Cas, wake up.”

Castiel does wake up, violently, with a shout. He sits up and yells wordlessly at his lap. His hand is in a fist. He slams it down onto his leg. 

“Oh fuck. Cas, stop!”

Castiel does not hear him, or maybe ignores him. He continues to pummel his legs with angry fists until Dean grabs them and wrestles Castiel back into a horizontal position. 

“Let me go.” Says Castiel.

“You have to stop hurting yourself.” Says Dean, “It’s just a dream. You were just having a bad dream.”

“It’s never just a dream.” Castiel tosses his head back in an attempt to hide the tears that come to his eyes, “It’s everything.”

“Tell me what happened.”

Castiel shakes his head, but he talks anyway. “My legs.” He says, “They wouldn’t work. And I had to- I had the chance to save Anna. But they wouldn’t  _ fucking work _ .”

“Alright, alright,” Dean pets Castiel’s hair in what he hopes is a calming motion. 

Castiel closes his eyes. Slowly, he relaxes. “What if they never work again?”

“I don’t know.” Says Dean, “I don’t know what to tell you. You’d get used to it, I guess.”

“I don’t want to.”

“I know.”

“It’s not  _ fair _ .”

“I know.”

Tears pepper the fabric of Castiel’s pillow, evidence of the miniature rainstorm from above. Castiel shakes his head. “What am I supposed to do?”

“About what?”

“About anything.”

“Um,”

“I can’t just let this go, Dean. I can’t- if someone killed your brother, would you just let it go?”

Dean doesn’t even have to think. “No. I’d want revenge.”

Castiel stares at the ceiling. “And how am I supposed to have my revenge? I can’t even go up a flight of stairs. My sister deserves to be avenged and i’m laying here, unable to do a single thing.”

Dean closes his eyes for a moment. He’s having the beginning of what he can tell is going to be a very bad idea. He can feel it now, how bad it will be. And yet, it must be done. How would he feel in this situation, so angry and helpless? What would he want?

He says, “I’ll help you.”

“What?”

“I’ll help you get your revenge.”

Castiel looks at him. He doesn’t say anything for a disconcerting amount of time. Dean almost expects him to protest, to say  _ you’re not a part of this _ , but he doesn’t

He says, “Thank you, Dean.”

 

It’s not a complicated plan. Castiel’s idea had been much more complicated, but Dean is not really down for that much loss of life, especially if it’s people he doesn’t know. His is simpler, he’d like to say elegant but that might be a stretch. 

It is: they burn Fallen headquarters to the ground. Simple. Easy. Well, less easy than Dean would have thought. Castiel has knowledge of the headquarters and the surrounding area, he knows when people will be coming and going. He knows which part of the building should catch the fastest. 

It’s surreal, pushing Castiel down the street in his wheelchair, backpack full of old rags and gasoline. It feels dangerous, and Dean hasn’t felt real danger in a long time. He steals, but he’s careful these days. Careful to pick easy marks, careful not to test his limits. This is different. If this goes to plan, people might die. At the very least, a building will be burnt to the ground. He’d still rather do this than Castiel’s plan, but he’s not all that sure this one is good either. 

He can’t say no, though. He can’t back out. Castiel is depending on him, and he deserves his revenge. If nothing else ever goes right for him again, this should. 

The building they’re looking for lies on the very outer limits of Olympus. It’s near enough to the Below that they shouldn’t have much of a problem getting to it, as long as none of those clean, upper class people spot them. 

There is a canal separating Olympus from the Below, with only one official crossing, but Castiel knows another way. Down the back streets, far from prying eyes, there is a bridge.

“This doesn’t look all that sturdy, Cas.” Dean eyes the bridge skeptically.  _ Bridge  _ is a little bit of a stretch. It’s just a bunch of stuff layed out over the canal. Boards and pipes and a couple old doors. 

“Its held for years.” Says Castiel. He starts rolling across it with all confidence. 

“You’re an idiot.” Says Dean. 

“At least i’m not a coward.” Castiel throws over his shoulder.

Dean scowls and watches the “bridge” bend under the weight of Castiel’s chair. The pipes hold it up, but it’s a close call. There are several moments when Dean holds his breath, sure that his friend is about to be plunged into the dark water below to be eaten by the canal worms. When Castiel makes it to the other side, Dean’s heart starts beating again. 

He’s apprehensive about his own crossing, but not as apprehensive as he was during Castiel’s. He runs quickly across to join his friend on the other side. 

“Alright,” He says, “what now?”

Now they wind their way carefully through alleyways and behind buildings. They’re from the Below, and it’s obvious. They’re dirty, clothes too big or too old, neither of them have had a proper haircut in a long while. Paper masks cover the bottom of their faces, but it’s not enough to disguise where they’re from. Technically they’re allowed in Olympus, but being seen raises a lot of suspicion that they don’t need. 

When they finally come to Fallen Headquarters, Dean’s first thought is that it’s smaller than he’d anticipated. It’s squat and solid, made mostly of stone. Doubts come rushing into his mind.

“Cas, how the hell are we supposed to set this on fire?”

“Shh, I know what i’m doing.” Says Castiel, “Stand watch here, I’m going to go around the side and set the fire.”

“What am I supposed to do if somebody comes?”

“I don’t know, make a bird sound?”

“Yeah, that’s totally not suspicious at all.”

“Maybe start talking really loud, you’re good at that.”

“You just think you’re  _ so  _ funny.”

Castiel gives him a look and rolls away around the building. Dean watches vigilantly for the first few minutes, but soon his mind begins to wander. He looks up at the side of the building across the alley, down at the wet cobblestone beneath his feet. He hums tunelessly. Finally, he hears the crunch of Castiel’s wheels on the ground. 

“Come on,” Says Castiel, rounding the corner with speed, “Let’s get some distance.”

They retreat a block, not so far as to not be able to see what’s happening, but far enough away that they won’t get caught up in it. Back behind the buildings, on the strip of land in between them and the canal, Dean and Castiel have a good view. They watch several minutes before Dean starts to see the orange light of flames licking the building. 

“Damn,” Says Dean, “I didn’t think you’d be able to do it.”

Castiel shrugs, looking proud of himself, “I know the weak spots.”

“Hey!” A voice rings out, startling Dean half to a heart attack. There is a man, he has stumbled out of the Fallen building. His finger is pointed directly at Castiel and Dean. “You there.”

“Oh, fuck.” Says Castiel, “We have to  _ go _ .”

Dean is happy to oblige. He grabs the handles of Castiel’s wheelchair and spins him around, leaning all his weight into pushing. Castiel holds on and lets it happen. 

They’re going fast. Fast enough, anyway, until they make it to the bridge. 

“Go on, hurry,” Dean urges Castiel. The bridge won’t hold them both at the same time. Dean turns back toward the way they came, and finds that the man who spotted them is still coming. He’s gaining, fast. Dean shifts into a fighting stance, but the man reaches him faster than he’d thought possible. His fist smashes into Dean’s face. It’s not enough to knock Dean down, he’s been hit before, and harder. He swings back, satisfied when his hand sinks into the man’s stomach. There’s something about the man, Dean barely has time to think, he looks familiar. 

“Come on!” Says a voice from across the canal, Castiel. He’s made it, it’s Dean’s turn. But Castiel’s voice has distracted him. He doesn’t see the man straighten up. He doesn’t see the knife until it’s too late, until it’s plunging into his side. The man’s hand comes up to tear at his face, the mask. It slips away. 

“You,” Says the man, his eyes wide with recognition. 

The man from the archives. Dean recognizes him now. 

There is no time. He raises one leg and slams his foot down into the man’s knee, doing his best to ignore the pain in his side. Just for now. If he can only ignore it for a little while, they’ll be okay. 

The man is down, and Dean staggers onto the bridge. He’s aware of the warmth dripping down his side, down his leg. Blood falls into the canal below, and the worms swarm. 

“Dean,” Castiel calls out. He looks worried. Why does he look so worried?

One foot, the other. In front, behind. Over and over again until he’s on the other side. That’s the way. Things have gone… blurry around the edges. He can’t have lost that much blood, can he? No, of course not. Just going into a little bit of shock, that’s all. It’ll be fine. 

He blinks, and everything is spinning. He hears Castiel’s voice again, but it’s muffled. It’s very, very far away. 

Everything is going dark. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one was a little shorter than usual because I missed two days of writing :p 
> 
> I promise that Dean will be okay, but what do you think will happen next?


	7. Serendipity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very sorry for not posting last week, life has a way of getting away from me, especially when everyone's sick at work and i'm work 12 hour days.   
> The story is almost over, it will have probably one or two more chapters and that's all.

Serendipity

_ noun _

finding something beautiful without looking for it

 

-

 

This is it. This is the moment they die, Castiel is sure of it. Dean has made it to the end of the bridge, but he’s bleeding badly and he’s unsteady. There, he stumbles. His eyes go glassy. Down, down he goes. 

Castiel wheels forward, fast enough to catch the bulk of Dean on his lap. He scrambles to get Dean into a position where he might still be able to propel them away, because they  _ need to get out of here _ . There is no good position, no good way to get one grown man atop another in a wheelchair. Castiel settles for a sort of sitting position, Dean slumped back on his lap. 

The man on the other side of the bridge is getting up, both hands still clenched around his knee. He howls in pain. Castiel knows who he is, of course he does. He’s only spent years with the asshole. 

Even with Castiel’s face mask, the man recognizes him. Or maybe he can sense that this was a revenge fueled attack. 

He shouts, “Castiel! Castiel, you’ll pay for this!”

“Screw you, Michael.” Castiel calls back across the canal.

“You’ll pay for this with your life.”

“Already did that once.” Castiel grabs both wheels and spins his chair in the other direction to wheel away as fast he can. There are other people streaming out of the burning building, people without injured knees, and Castiel would like to be very far away. 

It’s not as easy as it sounds, steering through the narrow sidestreets. He doesn’t have time for guilt, for regret, but he starts to feel them anyway. They climb up through his stomach and lodge themselves in his throat. He can’t breathe. He can’t speak. Dean is bleeding out and it’s his fault. 

Castiel turns into another alleyway and brings his chair to a fast hault. He can’t afford this, there isn’t time. But there has to be time. He lets it overwhelm him for a moment, all of it. He lets himself sob into Dean’s shoulder, one hand pressed to the wound that’s still steadily leaking warm, sticky blood. And then, time is up. A footstep. 

“Castiel?”

It’s not the voice he thought it would be, and when he turns he’s still surprised. 

“Gabriel.”

There is a gun in Gabriel’s hand, pointed at Castiel’s head, but it drops immediately. His face is sorrowful. He chokes. “I thought you were dead.”

“I was. You all left me to die.”

Gabriel shakes his head. “I didn’t- I tried to talk to him-”

“It doesn’t matter, Gabe. I died. Or, at least most of me did.” He leans his head back and gives a bark of mirthless laughter, “And now i’ll die again. This time for real, huh?”

“You know i’m not going to shoot you.”

“But how long until everyone else finds me? How long until he bleeds to death?” He tilts his head toward Dean. 

“He’s…?”

“He saved my life.” Says Castiel.

Gabriel looks at him. He looks at Dean. He says, “You’d better get going.” 

Doubt keeps Castiel still, a creeping guilt. “You could come with me.”

Gabriel blinks. He blinks again. His mouth twists, like he’s trying to hold back emotion. He shakes his head. “If anyone was a brother to me, it was you. But I can’t go. You know I can’t.”

Castiel longs to say more. To talk with Gabriel, to find the time. He wonders what kind of a family they could be without the constant fear of being with The Fallen, without all the anger, all the violence. 

“If you ever change your mind,” Says Castiel, “You should try and find me.”

“I will.” Says Gabriel.

With this, Castiel turns again to leave. There is so much to do in so little time, and he’s not even really sure what it all is. Where can he hide? Who can help him now? 

An idea comes to him fast and sharp. He needs to locate a holophone. He finds a holophone booth tucked away in front of a noodle shop, and he crams himself and Dean both inside. He can barely reach the thing, set at too high a level, but he finally manages to hit enough buttons to get a help center.

“How can we assist you today, citizen?” Comes the cheerful automated voice. 

“I need the number for a Samuel Winchester who lives on Turos.”

There is a melody. A smooth beeping sound. And then, “We are unable to process your request. Number unavailable.”

Castiel curses, he spits. “Uh, get me the hospital on Turos then.”

“Dialing: Turos General Hospital.”

“Thank the fucking stars.”

The machine beeps for a long time, for too long. Castiel can feel the Fallen closing in on them, he can also feel the weight of Dean on his lap slowly crushing his legs. His lap is warm and wet with blood, and he’s doing his best not to think about it. Blood has never bothered him before, but it didn’t belong to anyone he cared about before. He can feel it running down his leg. 

“Turos General Hospital, how can I help you?” The cheerful voice comes from the holophone.

“Hi, down here,” Castiel waves his arm to get the secretary’s attention, “I need to speak with Dr. Winchester.”

There is a light tapping noise, and then, “Dr. Winchester is busy right now, can I take a message.”

“It’s about his brother, he’ll want to know.”

A small sigh, “I’ll see if I can find him.”

Again, the wait. It’s agonizing. He feels so small. So helpless. He can’t let Dean die. He already let Anna die, he can’t lose Dean too. Not after Dean saved him, helped him. Not after everything. 

“Hello? Dean?” A masculine voice comes from the holophone now. Sam.

Castiel waves his arm again. “Sam! Down here, it’s Castiel.”   
“Castiel?”

“Listen, Dean has been stabbed.”

“Stabbed? Cas, where are you? Are you on the way to the hospital? How bad is it?”

“It’s not good, and no. I can’t take him to a hospital, there are people after us. I don’t know what to do, Sam. I can’t- I can’t lose him. He’s bleeding so much.”

There is a beat of silence. “Tell me where you are.”

“Telpin street.”

“Can you make it to the Heverard Bay?”

“Yes.” 

“I’m on my way. Twenty minutes. Do you have anything to stitch the wound?”

“No, nothing.”

“Then keep as much pressure on it as you can.” Sam hangs up.

“And now, we run.” Castiel says to Dean, whose head is leaned against Castiel’s shoulder.

 

-

 

There is nothing. There is nothing. Well, there is… Dean. He is floating, or maybe swimming. There is darkness everywhere, all around. He feels weak. He can’t move his arms or his legs, everything is too heavy. Everything is too much. A pain in his side throbs, throbs. Where is he? Where is… anything? An idea itches at the back of his mind, that he’s supposed to be doing something. He’s supposed to be somewhere. Where is he supposed to be? Was anything happening before this, or was this always all there was? It’s too much. He lets himself fade slowly out. 

 

Sam’s voice. A low, steady beep. The smell of antiseptic. 

Dean opens his eyes. Rather, he tries to open his eyes, and finds them crusted shut with the stickiness of tumultuous sleep. He opens his mouth, but everything is dry as dust. His tongue is sandpaper. He groans. 

“Dean?” A voice, nearby. Cas. 

Dean can hear movement, but he can’t tell what’s going on. He groans again. 

Distantly, he hears, “Sam, he’s awake.” And then movement again. Closer, “Dean, can you hear me?”

Dean nods. He lifts a hand to his mouth, weak. He can’t seem to control it right, it feels limp. 

“Yes?”

“Wa-” he manages, before the rest of his word is cut off in a rasp.

“Oh!” Says Castiel, “Water? You want water? Of course you do, you must be parched.”

The clink of glass. The squeak of a faucet. The sound of wheels. Cool glass against his bottom lip. 

“Okay, careful. I’m just gonna tip it a little bit.”

Water, too suddenly. It sloshes around the sides of his mouth and down his cheeks. Miraculously, some makes it in his mouth. Across his tongue. Down his throat. Swallowing it is a balm. 

“Oh, sorry, sorry.” Says Castiel. 

Unsteady as they are, Dean finally convinces his hands to find his eyes, to rub at the crust until he can open his eyes. The room is too bright, too white, and Dean feels like he’s forgetting something important. He closes his eyes again against the onslaught. 

“Cas,”

“Yes?”

“What… what happened? I don’t- I don’t remember how I got here. There was the fire. What else…”

Castiel’s hand is on his arm. “Don’t worry about it right now.”

Dean forces his eyes open again. He turns his head. It hurts more than he’d like. Castiel is by the side of his bed, in his wheelchair. He looks a little wane, but otherwise unhurt. 

“Cas, tell me what happened.”

Castiel looks at him. He rubs Dean’s arm. He sighs. “You got stabbed.” He says, pointing to Dean’s side, “Right there. I got you away, but I didn’t know where to go and you were bleeding so much.”

“Where are we?”

Castiel doesn’t answer right away.

Dean asks again, “Cas, where did you bring me?”

There is a pause. “We’re on Turos. I called your brother.”

Dean closes his eyes. Relief washes over him, he’s in good hands. And then, guilt, he’s a burden to his family once again. 

“Stop.” Castiel says. His fingers dig into Dean’s arm. “This was the best option. And I- I didn’t know what else to do.” His voice wavers, quiets, “I thought you were going to die.”

Dean looks at him. He’s wan, bleary eyed. His hair mussed in a way that suggests pulling. He’s been worried. Of course he has. 

“Thank you.” Says Dean, “You saved my life, didn’t you?”

“You would have done the same.”

Castiel’s hand is still on his arm, and Dean’s free hand finds it. He slides his fingers into the spaces inbetween Castiel’s. He closes his eyes for a moment. Feeling rolls from his toes to his head. This, this is not something he ever thought he’d have - whatever it is, exactly. Someone’s hand to hold. Someone who would risk their life for his. Someone that  _ he  _ would risk  _ his  _ life for. 

“This is insane.” He says. 

“What is?”

“Us.”

Castiel studies his face. He tilts his head a little to the side. He says, “No more insane than anyone else.”

Footsteps. Sam swings in through the door, consternation and then relief playing visibly on his face. 

“You’re awake.” He’s at the bedside in three long strides, bending down to hug Dean before his brother can protest.

“Ow,” Says Dean. 

“You’re fine.” Sam’s voice is muffled by the shoulder of Dean’s hospital gown. 

“Actually, I hear i’ve been stabbed.”

When Sam stands back up, he wipes tears away from his cheeks with the back of his hand. “I can’t believe you got yourself stabbed.”

“Well I wasn’t  _ trying  _ too.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

Dean grumbles. “‘Cause you’re an ass.”

“Sam,” Castiel interrupts, “Earlier, you had something you wanted to ask Dean.”

Sam blinks twice before he remembers, “Oh yeah! Dean, me and Bobby want you come back and live with us.” He talks quickly, as if saying it fast with be more convincing, “We have all that empty space and Bobby hates it, Dean. He hates it. Come back and live with us.”

“I can’t.” Dean says. 

“Why not?”

“Because I  _ can’t _ .”

“Tell me why.”

“Because I got Dad killed!” The exclamation runs his blood cold. There it is, all out there now. Now, he can be judged. Now, his brother will see him for what he truly is. 

Sam’s expression slips, but not into judgement. He sighs and sits down on the edge of the bed by Dean’s knees. 

“Dean, Dad got himself killed. He was an adult and he shouldn’t have been doing the things he was doing.”

“But-”

“It wasn’t your fault. Not everything is your responsibility. We don’t blame you for anything.”

Dean closes his mouth. He closes his eyes. He feels like crying. He feels like screaming. He’s not entirely sure how he’s  _ supposed  _ to feel. 

“Dean,” Castiel says, softly, “You can’t go back to the Below. They’ll be looking for you.”

The reality of it takes a moment to set in. “Oh, fuck.” He says, “Oh  _ fuck. _ ”

“Yeah.”

Dean presses his head back into his pillow. This whole thing has gone so spectacularly wrong. But, also strangely well. He feels like a weight has been lifted off of his shoulders. The fact that no one blames him for John’s death is baffling and unexpected. He’s not sure what to do, what to say. He’s never cared much for his room by the canal, it was a waystation only. He has Sam here, and Castiel, and these are the things that matter.

It’s almost difficult to get the words past his teeth. He says, “Okay. Okay, I guess. I can stay with you and Bobby.”

Sam beams. He leans down to hug Dean again. His white coat makes him a little foreign, but that’s Sam. That’s his brother. 

“Alright, alright.” He says after too long, “Calm down, you’re gonna get sick of me soon enough.”

Sam shakes his head, a smile pulling the edges of his mouth into a cheerful shape. 

Dean’s eyes find Castiel again, as they always do. His friend is looking away, towards the window. He’s smiling, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. Where will Castiel go? Dean wonders. What will he do? Is he supposed to just go on his way?

“Cas saved my life.” Dean says aloud. His voice sounds sharp after bouncing around in his own head.

“I know.” Says Sam, turning to Castiel and clapping him on the shoulder, “And you’ll never know the debt I owe you for that.”

“Can he stay?” Dean blurts.

Sam and Castiel both turn to look at him, twin expressions of bafflement on their faces. 

“I mean, can he?” Dean says. 

“What do you mean?” Sam asks.

“Can he stay?” Dean repeats, “Can he, you know, live… with us? With me?”

Sam looks at him for several long moments. He seems to be considering something. He looks at Castiel. He asks, “Would you want to?”

Castiel looks at Dean. “You don’t have to take care of me.” He says, “I’m a grown man, I can figure things out.”

“You can’t go back.”

“So i’ll stay on Turos. You don’t have to-”

“I’m not,” Dean interrupts, “I mean- you don’t  _ have  _ to come, but i’d like you to. I’m not asking out of obligation or- or pity, just selfishness.”

“Selfishness?”

Dean does not look at his brother. He kind of wishes Sam weren’t here for this. “I like having you around.” 

Castiel blinks slowly, once, and then a smile spreads across his face. This time, it reaches his eyes. “You like having me around?”

“Don’t get a big head about it.” Dean grumbles. 

Sam clears his throat abruptly, standing to brush invisible dust off his pants. “I’m going to go, ah, check some other patients. I’ll be back.” 

When he leaves the room, Dean is aware of the abrupt change in atmosphere. Castiel is still looking at him. He wheels himself to the head of the bed, close enough to touch. 

“You like having me around.” He says. 

“Not if you keep being smug about it.”

“Dean,” Says Castiel, and his fingers are there at Dean’s throat, turning Dean’s head.

“What?”

Castiel stretches, and it’s just enough to put his lips within Dean’s reach. Just enough to bring them together. 

Dean’s heart contracts, almost painfully. He wishes there were room for both of them in this tiny bed, because he would very much like to hold him close. 

“You like me.” Castiel gloats in a whisper. 

Dean kisses him again, and the urge to hold Castiel in his arms only deepens. He wishes he could deny it. Well, no, he doesn’t really. 

“Yeah.” He admits, “I guess I do.”


	8. Cicitrize

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here is the end, i hope you enjoyed the story <3

Cicatrize

_ verb _

to find healing by the process of forming scars

 

-

 

Home. It’s still there, even after everything. Dean has had this idea in his head that it might be crumbling, overgrown, or gone entirely. That his sins might have had ramifications for his home makes sense to him. An eye for an eye, sort of. But there it is, still standing tall. 

Three stories of sturdy farmhouse, a garage, and a barn that hasn’t housed animals or farm equipment in centuries. 

Sam’s hovercar comes to a smooth stop in front of the wraparound porch, and lowers quietly to the ground. There is a figure on the porch, and Dean’s stomach roils. He doesn’t know if he can step out of the car. 

“Does he know?” he asks Sam.

Sam turns to look back at Dean. “Who, Bobby? He knows you’re coming home, if that’s what you mean.”

“He’s okay with it?”

“Of course he’s okay with it. Why wouldn’t he be?”

“Because-” But Dean can’t finish.  _ Because I might have gotten my father killed, because off all the bad things i’ve done since then and now, and before too.  _

Sam shakes his head, “No one blames you, Dean.”

He gets out first, to get Castiel’s wheelchair from the trunk of the car, and Dean follows quickly. It chafes him a little when Sam helps Castiel into the chair, although he’s not sure why. He should be glad for the break, he’s been caring for Castiel all this time, but he wants to be the one to help. 

The front porch steps are a problem, certainly, but the chair has short-term hovering capabilities and they’re maneuvered with little fuss. 

Dean has no sooner stepped onto the front porch than he’s engulfed by a hug. He feels a moment of panic, and then the gratitude of the moment runs through him. Bobby smells like old wood and paint. He smells like home. Dean hugs him back. 

“It’s good to have you back.” The old man says gruffly into Dean’s shoulder.

“Good to be back.” Says Dean. His eyes are closed tight, fighting off tears. The hug lingers, it has been too long since since Dean and Bobby have seen each other. 

When they break apart, Dean quickly wipes tears away from his cheeks. 

“You’ve been gone too long.” Says Bobby, his own eyes shining.

“I know.” Says Dean, “I’m sorry.”

Bobby shakes his head. “What’s done is done.” He looks past Dean then, to Castiel, who seems to be trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. It’s not working. “This must be Castiel. I’ve heard a lot about you, young man.”

Castiel’s eyes widen at Bobby’s approach, and he flinches back a little when the old man offers his hand. It’s a moment before he takes it and gives it a shake. 

“You been looking out for Dean?”

“Yes sir,” Says Castiel.

“Good.” Bobby looks back over his shoulder at Dean, “Boy like that needs plenty of looking after.”

“Hey,” Says Dean. 

“True.” Says Castiel.

“Excuse me,” Dean protests, “I’ve been taking care of you this whole time.”

“Sure you have.” Says Castiel. That teasing voice, that smug little smile, make Dean want to eather kiss him hard or smack him on the back of his head, he’s not sure which. He does neither. He crosses his arms over his chest and scowls. 

“Come on in,” Bobby says after a beat. “Lets get everybody situated and then somebody had better help me with supper.”

 

Dean’s room is just how he left it. The walls are covered with posters of bands and movie covers. His bed, bigger than the one at his apartment, covered with a warm blue comforter. It’s like he never left. 

Dean puts his face in his hands. It’s too much. How can he go from nothing to all of this? He doesn’t deserve this, this support, this comfort. How can it be for him, after everything he’s done?

“Dean,” Castiel’s voice comes from his elbow.

Dean drops his hands, looks down. 

“Sam said I could stay in your father’s old room. Is that alright with you?”

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I just- I wasn’t sure if it would bother you.”

“I think it’ll be fine.” If he’s being honest, it does bother Dean a little, but not for the reason Castiel probably thinks. John was… well, he was an asshole. He wasn’t a good father, which is something that Dean has always kind of known but only recently begun to admit. He feels uneasy about Castiel being in a room full of that energy. Full of  _ John _ . 

When they go to look, though, when Dean stands in the doorway looking at the beigy monotones, there is nothing. There is no part of John left here, save for a few old pictures and a boring color scheme. 

“You want to re-paint?”

Castiel looks startled. “I don’t think that’s my place.”

“I’ll ask Sam, but I don’t think he’d care.”

Castiel looks around the room. “Maybe. It’s certainly drab, isn't it?”

“Getting high minded now, are you?”

Castiel shoots him a look. “Maybe I just spent too long in your crappy apartment.”

“Alright, alright. Simmer down.”

“ _ You  _ simmer down.”

“You can both cool off.” Comes a voice from directly behind them. 

Dean spins, and there’s Bobby, looking amused. “I need help in the kitchen, come on.”

“I just got out of the hospital!” Dean protests.

“You injure your hands?”

“No.”

“Come on, then.”

“Ha,” Says Castiel.

“Shove it.” Says Dean. 

 

The kitchen, large and open. With it’s sturdy countertops, old wooden cabinets, and plaid window coverings. Dean cannot describe the feeling he gets when he steps from the hallway into this room that he spent so many hours in as a child. It’s as if, all of a sudden, he’s aware of his place in the world again. 

The smell of something meaty cooking on the stove might as well be a time machine, it blasts him back in time for just a moment. He closes his eyes and when he opens them again he can feel his soul settling in for a long stay. He’s home. 

“Alright,” Says Bobby, “There’s vegetables to cut, everybody grab a knife.”

“I just got off work.” Says Sam.

“And your brother just got stabbed, both of you get to work.”

The grumbling that follows is for show only, and they all know it. The air in the kitchen is light, it’s happy. The kitchen counters are too tall for Castiel though, and he looks lost without something to do. Dean gets a tall barstool from the other side of the counter for him. 

“You need help up?” He asks Castiel, quietly.

“Ah, maybe.” Castiel eyes the stool. He levers himself up on the arms of his wheelchair, but he’s not quite high enough to reach the seat of the stool. Dean knows from experience that he can stand for a moment, but then his legs hurt him too badly. He extends his arms and waits until Castiel begrudgingly accepts them. It’s a little awkward, especially since there’s a moment when Dean has to bodily lift Castiel from a standing position to the seat. Castiel has gone pale by the end of it, and from his new seated position he leans his head on Dean’s shoulder for a moment. 

Dean is aware of Bobby and Sam in the room, and he’s aware of Castiel’s tendency to come down too hard on himself. He presses a secret kiss to Castiel’s temple, and asks, “Alright?”

A nod, “I’m okay.” 

When Dean steps back Castiel smiles softly at him, and Dean’s stomach lurches in a way that’s not unpleasant. 

“Those onions aren’t gonna chop themselves.” Bobby says from his place at the stove.

“Right.” Dean withdraws from Castiel, feeling a little cold. “Sorry.”

Standing next to Castiel at the counter and chopping vegetables feels strangely domestic. They’ve been living together all this time, but it feels different now for reasons that Dean can’t place. Castiel’s arm brushing his, Castiel glancing sideways at him only to look away when he looks back. It puts a squeeze on Dean’s heart and doesn’t let up. 

Bobby doesn’t do nutrimix, and his kitchen appliances date back far enough that Dean isn’t really sure when they were made. They’re of the slow and steady variety, like much of Turos. It was something Dean loathed as a child, the slowness. It always seemed terribly boring when he was a teenager, raring to go. Now, it’s tranquil. It’s a place to rest, and rest is what he craves most of all. 

At dinner they sit around an actual table, there’s real conversation. There is a moment when Dean feels the absence of his father acutely and it stings across wounds that still aren’t quite healed. But he is still here, Bobby and Sam and Castiel are here, and that’s enough for right now. Time is syrup slow, they are warm, there’s enough to eat. Castiel shovels food into his mouth like he’s expecting it to disappear until Dean gives him a tap on the shoulder to remind him to slow down. No one mentions John, no one mentions Dean’s long absence. They talk about Sam’s patients, Bobby’s projects, how Castiel is adjusting to his wheelchair. It’s nothing and it’s everything. 

 

Dean lays on his back in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Everything is so quiet. There are no shouts in the distance, no buzz of streetlights, no gurgling of the canal. No cars, no sirens, no metallic sounds of someone running into the alleyway garbage cans. There is just… night. Only the darkness around him and the darkness that lurks in his mind. He can’t sleep. He’s been trying and trying, but he can’t still his own thoughts long enough to turn off his brain. And it’s not just that, he’s grown used to sharing a bed. Castiel beside him, warm and soft and a little bit grumpy. He misses it. His bed is cold, there’s a whole side just empty. He frowns at the ceiling, wondering how weird it would be if he went and knocked on Castiel’s door. 

No, he won’t. Castiel is definitely already asleep, enjoying having a whole bed to stretch out on. He will let Castiel have his space, it’ll probably be good for the both of them. 

There is a knock at the bedroom door. 

At first Dean thinks he’s imagining it, it’s so quiet. But then, it comes again. He swings his legs off the side of the bed and walks to the door with apprehension blooming in his gut. Just who is knocking on his door this late?

He’s not as surprised as he maybe should be when he opens the door and finds Castiel on the other side, rolling nervously back and forth.

“Hey,” Says Dean.

“Uh, hi.” Says Castiel.

Dean waits, until he’s sure Castiel isn’t going to say anything else. “Is there, uh, something you want?”

“Ah,” Castiel looks away, then back. “Well. There was, just-” he looks away again. He frowns. He huffs. “I got lonely.” He admits. 

“Yeah?”

“I guess I- I don’t know. I got used to sleeping with you, I guess.” 

There is a long, quiet stretch, in which no one says anything, but many things are said anyway. It goes on until Dean takes a step back and opens the door wider. 

“You wanna come in?”

Castiel rolls himself in, and then all around the room. “It’s very you.”

“You think so?” 

He looks at the figurines on the shelves, the trinkets. “I do.” 

Dean stands next to his bed, shifting from one foot to the other. The room is dark, but he can easily track Castiel’s movements. He’s not entirely sure what to do. Should he get back into bed? Should he wait?

He waits until Castiel wheels back around to face him. “Do you, um, wanna,” He inclines his head toward the bed.

“Oh, yeah.”

“You want help?”

“No, I can get it.”

Dean crawls back into bed, finally. His spot is still warm. He sits up to make sure Castiel gets in alright, and then lays down. 

“Wow, this is definitely a bigger bed.” Says Castiel

They’re laying side by side, but they’re not even touching. In Dean’s old bed they were practically on top of each other all the time, now there’s space in between them. Space to move. “Can I…” Castiel trails off.

“What?”

“Nothing. Sorry.”

“No, what?”

“Uh, can I move closer to you?”

“Yeah, come on.” Dean raises one arm to put behind Castiel’s neck as he scoots closer. And then, he turns and tucks his head under Dean’s.

Something in Dean’s chest loosens. Something tight and anxious that Dean hadn’t even noticed until this very moment, and it’s gone. He turns his head and his nose grazes the top of Castiel’s head. He breathes in. In a moment, his mind is calm. He’s been trying all night to still his thoughts, and now they lay down to sleep. He presses a kiss to Castiel’s temple and, when Castiel turns his head, to his forehead. Castiel’s head tips up. Dean kisses the bridge of his nose. The soft parting of his lips. And again. 

Castiel is so soft, so warm. His mouth opens and Dean’s tongue slides in. Castiel makes a happy sound in the back of his throat that has Dean smiling against his lips. Castiel’s leg comes to rest atop Dean’s. He sighs. 

“Thank you.”

“What for?”

“Everything.”

“Yeah, well, same to you.”

 

\- 

 

The thing that wakes Castiel is not a sound, not a movement, but an absence. He can tell before he opens his eyes that Dean is not in bed. It’s still very dark, but there’s an early morning chill to the air. 

“Dean?” Castiel says to the room, but there is no answer. He looks around, eyes adjusting to the dark, but there is no one there. Castiel closes his eyes again and takes a deep breath to calm the panic that blooms in his chest. They’re safe here, a world away from all their troubles. Dean is not in danger, he must have stepped out. 

But the thought plagues him, and he must know. He can’t just sit here in the dark and wait to see whether or not Dean comes back. 

His whole body aches, but the pain in his legs doesn’t stop him from sliding them off of the bed, maneuvering himself into his wheelchair, and navigating out of the room. Dean is not in the kitchen, and the bathroom is empty. He’s not in the living room, not in the laundry room. Everyone else is asleep, their lights off, snoring peacefully. Castiel’s temple throbs. 

“He’s fine.” He says to himself. “He’s fine, he’s fine.”

The front door is open. The screen door is shut, but the heavy inside door is open. Cool moonlight filters in, a long rectangle. 

From the porch, Castiel looks out across the yard. Finally, he spots Dean. His body is a dark shape laying against the lighter grass. 

“Dean?” He calls out.

The shape sits up. “Cas?”

Relief. Castiel can breathe again. Dean is fine. Everything is fine. 

Dean stands, brushes the seat of his pants, and heads toward the porch. When he’s close, he shakes his head.

“What are you doing out here, man?”

“I was looking for you.” Castiel says, “I woke up and you were gone.”

Dean’s expression is hard to discern in the moonlight. A quirk of the lips, a tilt of the head. “I was just… I don’t know. I felt like being outside. I’ve been gone so long, I forgot how much I missed the wide open space.”

“Did you want to be alone?”

“No. Not really. You want to sit with me?”

“Yeah.”

They leave the wheelchair on the porch. Dean picks Castiel up, one arm under his legs, one under his back. He does it easily, despite the fact that he’s still injured himself. He takes Castiel to the middle of the yard and sets him down on the ground. He sits down beside him.

“Look at that.” He says, staring up at the stars, “Can’t see that in The Below.”

The sky is awash with them, billions of tiny points of light. Dean is right, you can’t see that in The Below, light pollution makes it impossible. Castiel never knew there were so many stars. 

“It’s beautiful.”

Dean turns his head to look at Castiel, then back at the sky, at Castiel again. “What do you want to do, now?”

“What, like, right now?”

“No, I mean- now that you’re… free.”

Castiel does not look at him. He’s not sure if he can. He’s afraid he might cry. “I don’t know. I never thought about it before. I never really thought i’d have the chance to do anything else.”

“Now you do.”

“Now I do.” Castiel agrees. “Maybe…”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe i’d like to learn something new.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. A skill? Something soft. Something… kind.”

Dean is quiet. He scoots himself closer to Castiel on the grass, close enough to press a kiss to his cheek. His fingers brush Castiel’s, twine between them. His nose brushes the curve of Castiel’s ear. 

He says, “We’ll find you something good.”

Castiel believes him. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you all know how much it means to me. 
> 
> Hugs,  
>  Grace

**Author's Note:**

> So I haven't written any fanfic in a long time. I think it's been about a year, actually. This is one that I wanted to write and I have a plan for it. 
> 
> Catch me on tumblr if you want, i'm at [deanlightful](http://www.deanlightful.tumblr.com).
> 
> You can find a rebloggable for this fic [here](https://deanlightful.tumblr.com/post/182016767355/solivagant-dean-winchester-is-accustomed-to-the).
> 
> Hugs,  
> Grace.


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